r 


7 


tit 


Capital  Novels. 

By  tJte  Author  of  this  Volume. 

All  neat  12mos,  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 

PRICE,  $1.75  EACH. 


RutJedge, 

The  Siitherlands, 

Frank  Warrington, 

St.  Philip's, 

Louie. 

Single  copies  sent  by  mail,  postage  free,  by 
Carletoii,     Publisher, 
New  York. 


ST.    PHILIP'S. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"  KUTLEDGE,"  "  FRANK  WARRING-TON,"  "  THE  SDTHERLANDS,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


HAW,  ,«,* 


NEW    YORK  : 

Carle 'ton ,  Publisher ,  4.13  Broadway. 


M  DCCC  LXV. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S64,  by 
GEO.  W.  CAKLETON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


To 
Y      D  1C  A.  E,     Ml  O  T  BE 

I     OFFER     WHATEVER    IN 


REFLECTS   HER   PURE   EXAMPLE   AND   UNWORLDLY   COUNSELS; 
WHATEVER    HER   JUST   TASTE    DOES   NOT   CONDEMN, 

AND    HER 
CLEAR   MIND  REJECT   AS   WORTHLESS. 


2051314 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

CHAPTER  I. — THE  PARSONAGE, 9 

CHAPTER  II. — A  Vow, 14 

CHAPTER  III. — A  STRANGER,  .......  22 

CHAPTER  IV. — THE  HECTOR, 29 

CHAPTER  V. — DR.  CATHERWOOD, 38 

CHAPTER  VI. — EARLY  SUMMER,  ......  43 

CHAPTER  VII. — IN  THE  NURSERY, 50 

CHAPTER  VIII. — A  SOUND  OF  REVELRY  BY  NIGHT,       .         .  55 

CHAPTER  IX. — THE  CLTBOURNES,    ......  64 

CHAPTER  X. — CHRISTINE'S  BENEFACTRESS,        .         .         .         .71 

CHAPTER  XI. — THE  MILLER'S  FAMILY,    .                 ...  76 

CHAPTER  XII. — THE  RECTOR'S  RESIGNATION,  ....  82 

CHAPTER  XIII. — DR.  UPHAM'S  SUCCESSOR,     ....  86 

CHAPTER  XIV. — ST.  PHILIP'S  IN  NEW  HANDS,  ...  91 
CHAPTER  XV. — FIVE  MINUTES  TOO  LONG  AT  THE  Q-ARDEN 

GATE, 98 

CHAPTER  XVI.— THE  FAIR, 104 

CHAPTER  XVII. — THE  END  OF  HARRY'S  HOLIDAY,  .  .  114 
CHAPTER  XVIII. — MR.  BROCKHULST  FORGETS  TO  TELL  HIS 

BEADS, 119 

CHAPTER  XIX. — VAI.SE  A  DEUX  TEMPS,  ....  124 

CHAPTER  XX. — A  VIGIL, 132 

CHAPTER  XXI. — A  FEW  MINUTES'  QUIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN,  140 

CHAPTER  XXII. — A  DANGER  AVERTED,  ....  149 

CHAPTER  XXIII. — A  MOMENT  OF  TEMPTATION,  .  .  .  161 

CHAPTER  XXIV. — A  ROUGH  EXPERIENCE,  ....  Io6 

CHAPTER  XXV. — EAVESDROPPING, 181 


viii  CONTESTS. 

PAOB 

CHAPTER  XXVI.— No  SERVICE  AT  ST.  PHILIP'S,    .         .         .191 

CHAPTER  XXVII. — OLD  HUNDRED, 19G 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. — THE  END  OF  THE  SUMMER'S  CAMPAIGN,  203 

CHAPTER  XXIX. — ANOTHER  CHANGE, 208 

CHAPTER  XXX. — PHCEBE  GIIMORE'S  REMORSE,       .         .         .  214 

CHAPTER  XXXI. — THE  ORDEAL, 227 

CHAPTER  XXXII.— HELENA'S  WORK, 240 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. — ONLY  A  MONTH, 244 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. — MADELINE  AND  CHRISTINE,      .         .         .  251 

CHAPTER  XXXV. — "  WOOED  AND  MARRIED  AND  A',  "    .         .  262 

CHAPTER  XXXVI— SUSPICIONS, 268 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. — HARRY  DOES  NOT  COME  HOME,      .         .  279 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII.— BY  JULIAN'S  BEDSIDE,         .         .         .  284 

CHAPTER  XXXIX.— A  ROBBERY, 289 

CHAPTER  XL. — DE  PROFUNDIS, 294 

CHAPTER  XLI. — MADELINE  SNAPS  THE  CHAINS,      .         .         .  298 

CHAPTER  XLIL— Two  YEARS  LATER, 303 

CHAPTER  XLIII. — MIDNIGHT  IN  HARRY'S  OLD  HOME,    .         .  313 

CHAPTER  XLIV.— A  DEATH-BED, 319 

CHAPTER  XLV. — DUST  TO  DUST, 325 

CHAPTER  XLVI. — A  LETTER, 330 

CHAPTER  XLVII. — A  JUNE  TWILIGHT, 337 


ST.    PHILIP'S. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    PARSONAGE. 

"  Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street, 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country  seat ; 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw." 

THE  knocker  was  muffled  on  Dr.  Upham's  door ;  the  windows 
of  the  second  story  were  all  closed  tight  against  the  light  of 
the  dim  and  hazy  autumn  afternoon;  the  hall,  the  parlor,  the 
dining-room,  the  Doctor's  study,  were  all  vacant ;  the  servants, 
in  their  end  of  the  house,  went  through  their  work  cautiously, 
and  talked  in  lowered  tones ;  occasionally,  from  the  further  end 
of  the  garden,  there  came  the  shout  of  a  child  at  play — and 
then  the  sharp,  low  reprimand  of  the  attendant  charged  with 
the  business  of  keeping  him  as  far  away  from  the  house  and  as 
quiet  as  he  could  be  kept. 

He  was  a  small,  delicately-made  child,  with  yellow  curls 
down  to  his  waist ;  and  his  nurse  was  a  dull,  discontented-look 
ing  German  woman,  who  knit,  and  scolded,  and  scowled,  at 
one  and  the  same  time.  The  boy  shouted,  laughed,  swung 
himself  from  round  to  round  of  the  arbor  that  supported  the 
old  grape-vine,  showered  the  dead  leaves  and  the  ripe  fruit  on 
his  nurse's  head,  gambolled  with  the  dog,  pelted  and  scared 
the  pigeons  on  the  eaves — quite  careless  of  the  fact  that  in  the 
house,  in  a  very  dark  and  silent  room  up  stairs,  his  mother  lay 
dying — agonizing  with  the  thought  of  leaving  him. 

1* 


10  THE  PARSONAGE. 

His  grandfather,  pacing  slowly  up  and  down  the  chamber 
where  his  wife  had  died  fourteen  years  before,  on  just  such  a 
still,  close  autumn  day  as  this,  lifted  the  sash  and  looked  out 
once  and  again  at  the  child  with  a  thought  of  checking  the 
mirth  that  grated  so  upon  him ;  but  each  time,  with  a  sigh,  he 
had  turned  away  and  left  the  boy  to  enjoy  his  little  day,  for 
his  heart  was  mellowed  by  sixty  years  of  life — forty  years  of 
ministry  among  the  suffering  and  dying — experience  of  a  thou 
sand  pains,  and  memories  of  a  thousand  lost  delights. 

Presently  a  young  girl  came  out  from  the  house,  paused 
half  way  down  the  path,  called  "Julian"  almost  in  a  whisper, 
watched  his  wild  play  for  a  moment,  and,  with  an  expression  of 
acute  pain  upon  her  features,  turned  away,  unable  to  tell  him 
what  she  thought  he  ought  to  know. 

This  was  Christine,  the  clergyman's  youngest  daughter,  sis 
ter  to  her  who  lay  dying  in  the  house.  These  two  were  all 
that  were  left  to  the  old  man  of  his  many  sons  and  daughters, 
born  to  him  in  this  very  house;  Helena,  the  eldest,  whose 
moments  with  him  were  now  numbered,  and  Christina,  the 
youngest,  whose  coming  had  cost  her  mother's  life.  Between 
"  Helena"  and  "  Christina,"  in  the  family  bible,  there  was  a  list 
of  names  with  corresponding  record  on  a  row  of  little  graves  in 
the  churchyard  that  adjoined  the  garden.  Christina  had 
grown  up  to  fourteen  years,  a  lonely,  dreamy  child,  feeling  that 
her  playmates  were  in  heaven,  and  her  mother  somewhere  in 
the  air  about  her.  Her  father  always  looked  at  her  with  a 
sigh;  she  knew  her  mother  went  when  she  came,  and  she  lived 
an  unreal,  unchildlike  life  amid  the  vacant  places  of  her  vanished 
comrades. 

Dr.  Upham  loved  his  little  daughter,  but  not  as  he  had  loved 
the  first  who  had  come  to  bless  his  early  happy  home.     Tha 
was  human  love,  eager  and  fond ;  this  was  the  calm  tendernes 
of  spirit  watching  spirit.    He  loved  her,  perhaps,  as  her  mother 
somewhere  in  the  air  about  her,  loved  her ;  he  had  schooled 


THE   PARSONAGE.  11 

himself  to  feel  she  would  soon  go  as  all  the  rest  had  gone  ;  he 
was  a  sad,  almost  an  old  man,  incapable  of  strong  new  feeling, 
when  she  came  to  him ;  the  strength  and  glory  of  his  day  were 
gone,  it  would  be  henceforth 

"  The  glimmer  of  twilight, 
Never  glad,  confident  morning  again." 

And  so  with  all  his  tenderness  and  benevolence  he  was  but  a 
poor  companion  to  the  little  girl,  hungry  for  a  living  sympathy 

The  eldest  daughter,  little  Julian's  mother,  had  been  since 
her  marriage  almost  as  dead  to  him  as  his  sons  and  daughters 
lying  "  under  the  long  grass  of  years,"  in  the  calm  churchyard 
beyond  the  garden  wall.  Ten  years  before,  when  Christine  was 
almost  a  baby,  this  .sister,  then  in  the  early  bloom  of  very 
brilliant  beauty,  had  married  in  a  rash,  inconsiderate  way,  and 
gone  abroad  to  live.  She  had  always  been  her  father's  darling, 
but  was  a  wilful  and  unsatisfactory  child,  missing  a  mother's 
guidance,  and  by  no  means  fulfilling  her  duty  to  him  or  to  her 
little  sister.  She  was  very  young,  entirely  uncontrolled,  her 
beauty  was  dazzling,  her  temper  uncertain,  her  mind  unform 
ed  ;  many  people  said  it  was  a  thing  for  her  family  and  the 
parish  to  be  thankful  for,  when  she  married  respectably  and 
went  away  to  live. 

Little  was  heard  of  her  for  the  first  five  years  of  her  married 
life ;  then  came  dark  rumors  of  domestic  troubles,  separation 
from  her  husband,  a  lawsuit,  contention  for  the  guardianship 
of  the  child,  pecuniary  difficulties  ;  and  finally,  total  silence. 

About  a  month  before  the  hazy  autumn  afternoon  on  which 
this  story  opens,  there  had  arrived  at  the  Parsonage  a  broken- 
spirited,  haggard-looking  woman,  bearing  dim  traces  of  former 
beauty,  a  wild  and  petulant  boy,  and  a  strange-eyed  foreign 
nurse.  Helena  had  come  home  to  die ;  she  had  helped  to 
break  her  father's  heart,  but  it  yearned  over  her  with  the  fond 
est  love,  and  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  next  hers,  wait- 


12  THE    PARSONAGE. 

ing  with  deep  anguish  for  the  tidings  from  within  that  he  feared 
each  moment  now  would  bring. 

Christine,  leaning  against  the  half-open  window  in  the  hall, 
looked  at  him  timidly,  but  dared  not  go  to  him.  She  was  ter 
rified  at  the  great  mystery  approaching ;  she  longed  to  have 
some  one  speak  to  her,  but  she  dared  not  speak  to  any  one. 
She  was  awed  as  much  by  the  silence  of  the  house,  the  grave 
looks  of  those  around,  the  newness  of  the  thoughts  suggested, 
as  by  the  fear  of  separation  from  one  who  had  never  been 
much  more  than  an  idea  to  her.  It  was  the  chill  of  death  in 
the  air,  the  grazing  of  the  mysterious  against  the  common 
place,  the  known  against  the  unknown,  more  than  the  thought 
of  parting  from  her  sister,  that  was  frightening  her. 

All  day  she  had  been  in  a  kind  of  dream,  afraid  to  think  of 
the  dark  room  from  which  she  was  excluded,  yet  afraid  to  turn 
her  thoughts  to  ordinary  things.  She  read  long  chapters  in  the 
Bible,  she  said  long  prayers  in  a  chilled  and  frightened  whis 
per,  listening  all  the  time  with  a  dreadful  choking  in  her  throat 
for  a  footstep  or  a  word  in  the  hall  outside.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  in  church  where  some  solemn  service  in  an  unknown 
tongue  was  being  celebrated,  of  which  she  could  see  the  awe  in 
the  faces  of  those  who  understood.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  fear, 
her  thin  cheeks  were  white,  her  hands  cold  and  weak,  but  her 
father  did  not  see ;  he  had  but  one  child  in  his  heart  then,  and 
she  lay  shivering  in  the  grasp  of  death. 

Presently  the  door  of  the  sick  room  opened,  and  a  grave- 
looking  man  came  out.  He  glanced  up  and  down  the  hall,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Christine,  starting  out  of  sight.  He  beckoned 
to  her,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  Your  sister  has  asked  for  you,"  he  said.  "  You  can 
go  in."  She  gave  such  a  frightened  start,  that  he  added 
kindly  : 

"  There  is  no  immediate  danger ;  the  nurse  will  be  within 
call,  though  she  wishes  to  see  you  alone.  A  word  will  bring 


THE   PARSONAGE.  I  ? 

her  in  if  there  should  be  any  danger ;  and  I  shall  remain  here 
till  the  last." 

The  last !  A  chill  crept  through  the  child's  veins  as  she  went 
towards  the  door,  stopping  with  her  hand  upon  the  latch,  sick 
and  faint  with  terror. 


14  A   VOW. 


CHAPTER    II. 

A    VOW. 

"  Why  should  her  fleeting  day-dreams  fade  unspoken, 
Like  daffodils  that  die  with  sheaths  unbroken  ? 

Had  the  world  nothing  she  might  live  to  care  for, 
No  second  self  to  say  her  evening  prayer  for  ? 

HOLME*. 

THE  room  into  which  the  little  girl  was  admitted  was  so  dim 
that  at  first  she  could  distinguish  nothing  but  the  tall  bed  from 
which  the  white  curtains  were  swept  back,  and  the  dark  figure 
of  the  nurse  moving  about  in  the  obscurity.  It  was  the  spare- 
room  of  the  Parsonage,  one  in  which  she  was  not  much  at 
home,  but  the  arrangement  of  the  furniture  had  been  altered,  and 
everything  seemed  strange  and  unfamiliar.  There  was  a  table 
with  a  white  cover  underneath  the  window,  upon  which  medi 
cines  were  set ;  on  another  was  a  spirit  lamp,  some  cordials,  and 
a  bowl  of  ice ;  everything  had  the  rigid  look  of  a  sick-room 
under  the  charge  of  a  professional  nurse. 

At  a  sign  from  the  dying  woman  the  attendant  admitted  a 
ray  more  of  light,  and  then,  with  rather  a  reluctant  step,  with 
drew  into  an  adjoining  chamber. 

Christine  heard  her  name  called  faintly  from  the  bed  ;  she 
went  towards  it,  knowing  nothing  but  that  her  heart  was  throb 
bing  with  loud  pulsations,  and  her  throat  was  bursting  with  a 
dreadful  pain.  There  was  such  a  blur  before  her  eyes  that  she 
could  not  see  her  sister's  face,  and  she  stood  beside  her  for  some 
minutes  before  she  really  knew  what  it  was  she  looked  upon. 
Helena  was  raised  up  with  pillows ;  she  breathed  with  painful 


A    VOW.  15 

effort,  bat  she  was  fighting  with  the  faintness  produced  by  her 
emotion,  and  struggling  to  command  herself  for  some  last  words 
that  she  hardly  had  the  strength  to  utter.  The  unmistakable 
lividness  of  death  had  settled  on  her  features,  but  her  eyes 
burned  with  a  restless  glitter,  and  her  lips  moved  with  an  eager 
ness  that  was  in  pitiful  contrast  to  their  ghastly  purple. 

"  They  did  not  tell  me,"  she  said,  gasping  at  every  word  for. 
breath,  "  till  half  an  hour  ago,  how  little  time  there  was.  I 
would  have  sent  for  you  before,  but  I  meant  it  should  be  the 
last  thing." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  I  have  sent  for  you,  Christine,  because 
I  have  something  that  I  wish  to  tell  you.  I  want  you  to  listen  ; 
you  are  not  such  a  little  girl ;  you  will  be  fourteen  somewhere 
about  Christmas-time  I  know." 

Christine  tried  to  say  "  yes,"  and  the  dying  woman  went  on  : 
"  Come  a  little  nearer  to  me.  I  want  to  look  at  you.  I  want 
you  to  understand." 

She  came  a  step  nearer  to  the  bed,  and  pushing  one  thin 
hand  under  the  pillow  to  support  herself,  Helena  turned  her 
head  towards  her,  and  fixing  her  strangely  eager  eyes  upon  her, 
went  on,  excitement  strengthening  her  voice  as  she  proceeded. 

"  Fourteen  years  is  not  so  young ;  I  took  care  of  you  when 
I  was  only  a  little  past  fourteen.  I  was  very  good  to  you, 
Christine,  though  you  can't  remember ;  only  I  married  and 
had  to  go  away.  I  have  been  very  unhappy,  and  this  is  what 
I  want  to  tell  you  about  now ;  very  unhappy,  very,  very  misera 
ble.  They  have  wronged  me  and  my  boy  ;  there  is  no  truth  in 
what  they  say ;  the  only  thing  about  it  was,  I  would  not  give 
him  up  to  them.  But  I've  got  to  give  him  up  now.  O  my 
poor  child  !" 

A  low  eroan  burst  from  her  as  she  turned  her  face  down 

O 

upon  the  pillow. 

"I've  got  to  leave  him,  Christine,  leave  him  alone  without  a 
soul  to  take  care  of  him — the  only  thing  I  love  in  all  the 


16  A   VOW. 

world.  That  I've  struggled  and  fought  for,  and  hid  myself 
and  led  such  a  dreadful  life  to  keep  with  me  !  I'm  going  to 
die,  and  he  has  got  to  stay.  Think  of  it,  Christine  !  Don't 
you  feel  sorry  for  me ;  all  these  years  thrown  away,  and  his 
father  will  have  him  yet!  His  father,  who  has  made  me  suffer 
so;  I  would  rather  have  him  in  the  coffin  by  me.  0  my 
baby !" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  as  the  mother  lay  with  her 
convulsed  face  buried  in  the  pillows ;  then  lifting  it  suddenly, 
and  with  an  effort,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  little  girl  and  said 
in  a  hurried  low  voice  : 

"Christine,  I  give  my  boy  to  you  ;  I  make  you  his  mother, 
I  charge  you  to  keep  him ;  I  have  a  right  to,  and  I  make  him 
yours.  My  father  is  worn  down  and  old  ;  what  does  he  know 
of  children  ?  Besides  he  will,  die  some  day,  and  then  Julian 
is  alone.  But  you — you  will  grow  up,  you  will  take  care  of 
him  and  watch  him — you  will  not  let  him  from  your  sight! 
Christine,  you  will  live  for  him !  You  will  hurry  to  be  a 
woman ;  he  needs  so  much  care,  he  is  so  delicate.  There  is 
always  that  little  cough,  like  mine  I  think ;  but  he  will  outgrow 
it,  he  will  be  better  in  this  air,  I  know.  Don't  leave  him  to 
Crescens;  she  is  a  dull  old  crone,  she  is  not  fit  to  manage  him. 
Take  care  of  him  yourself;  don't  let  anything  come  between 
him  and  you !" 

There  was  a  pause  ;  the  sufferer  gasped  for  breath  again, 
raised  herself  higher  in  the  bed,  while  her  eyes  searched  her 
sister's  face  with  an  eager,  subtle  look.  When  she  spoke  again 
it  was  in  a  different  voice  : 

"  You  say  '  yes' ;  I  know  you  will  love  him  and  be  good 
to  him  now,  while  there  is  nothing  else — but  when  there  comes 
a  lover  and  a  husband  and  babies  of  your  own,  you  will  forget 
my  little  boy !  You  will  let  him  go  if  his  father  finds  him  out 
and  comes  for  him  ;  you  will  say — Well,  yes,  he  may  as  well  have 
him  then.  Oh,  it  breaks  my  heart !  My  Julian  is  as  good  as 


A  vow.  17 

lost  if  he  once  falls  into  his  hands ;  or  if  he  does  not  get  him, 
he  will  be  a  poor  neglected  child,  pushed  out  of  the  way  for 
other  children,  nobody  to  pet  him,  nobody  to  go  and  look  at 
him  after  he  gets  asleep  at  night,  nobody  to  see  that  his  clothes 
are  pretty  and  that  he  is  warm  and  comfortable.  I  see  it  all ! 
I  cannot  talk  about  it ;  if  you  had  a  heart  you  would  be  sorry 
for  me  ;  you  would  not  let  me  die  believing  that." 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want  ?"  said  the  younger  one  in  a 
hollow  whisper,  looking  at  her  bewildereclly. 

"  This  is  what  I  want,"  said  the  other,  catching  her  breath  and 
trying  to  raise  herself  up  in  her  eagerness.  "  I  want  you  to  pro 
mise  me  something  ;  it  is  not  much,  it  is  not  unreasonable.  I 
would  not  ask  it  if  it  were  not  best  for  you  as  well  as  him.  You 
must  not  think  that  it  is  selfish  ;  why,  how  could  I  be  selfish  when 
I — I  am  dying,  as  they  say  !  I  want  Julian  to  be  safe,  and  you, 
you  will  be  so  much  better  off.  Christine  !  I  have  been  so  un 
happy  !  There  is  so  much  trouble  in  the  world  if  you  are 
married.  Men  are  brutes,  Christine  ;  that  is  all  about  them.  I 
could  tell  you  enough  to  make  you  loathe  the  very  thought  of 
being  married.  A  husband !  that  is  just  a  tyrant,  a  wretch 
who  only  cares  to  break  your  will,  a  good  fellow  who  goes  out 
into  the  world  and  leaves  you  biting  at  your  chain  at  home.  I 
cannot  bear  to  think  you  should  be  so  unwise  ;  you,  who  have 
a  home  and  money,  and  everything  that  makes  girls  need  to 
marry.  Besides  you  are  not  pretty,  you  are  not  the  kind  that 
marries.  I  have  watched  you  ;  you  are  steady,  straightfor 
ward,  you  are  not  coquette.  With  some  girls  it  would  be 
different,  but  you  are  like  a  nun.  Ah  !  the  nuns  !  How  I  envy 
them  with  their  sweet  calm  looks,  Christine.  They  don't  have 
such  rings  about  their  eyes  as  these  round  mine  ;  their  skins  are 
smooth  and  fair,  they  keep  their  beauty  till  they  are  old  old, 
women ;  they  are  not  haggard  wretches  while  they  are  yet 
young,  like  me  ! 

"  Look  at  me,  Christine !     I  was  a  beauty  once,  a  beauty  not 


18  A    VOW. 

ten  years  ago.  "  The  people  looked  after  me  in  the  street ;  I 
could  have  had  as  many  lovers  as  I  wanted.  And  now  I  have 
the  face  of  fifty  ;  I  shudder  when  they  bring  the  glass  to  me. 
And  that  comes  of  being  married  ;  that  comes  of  having  a 
cruel  wicked  husband,  who  was,  oh!  like  an  angel  of  light  at 
first.  They  deceive  you  so,  Christine  ;  it  is  main  de  fer  sous 
patte  de  veiours  :  always  main  de  fer  after  the  wedding  glove 
comes  off.  You  cannot  take  your  innocent  little  pleasure,  you 
must  have  the  eyes  always  on  the  floor ;  you  must  not  look 
pretty  for  any  one  but  him.  That  is  the  beginning,  Christine ! 
That  is  the  beginning  that  ends  in  hating,  hating,  hating !  Oh, 
I  cannot  talk  about  it ;  it  takes  away  my  minutes  to  remember 
what  I  have  gone  through. 

"  Christina  !  I  want  you  to  promise  me  you  will  not  marry ! 
I  want  you  to  swear  to  me  you  will  not.  You  must  believe 
what  I  have  said,  you  must  remember  it  is  all  the  worst  of 
misery.  You  will  be  saved  from  being  what  I  am,  you  will 
have  a  long  and  happy  life ;  you  will  have  Julian ;  I  will  give 
him  to  you,  and  that  is  the  only  good  in  being  married — a  child 
to  love  and  have  about  you  always.  I  have  suffered  for  him ;  I 
had  all  the  pain,  I  give  you  all  the  pleasure  :  oh,  it  is  the  best 
for  you.  How  well  I  remember  what  sufferings  those  were ! 
They  thought  that  I  would  die ;  there  were  days  and  days  I  lay 
just  between  life  and  death.  It  was  in  Strasbourg;  how  the 
bells  kept  ringing  ;  chime,  chime,  chime.  I  used  to  lie  and 
listen.  Ah  !  that  is  so  long  ago !  He  was  very  kind  to  me 
then ;  he  would  have  done  anything,  I  believe.  They  told  me 
he  never  slept  a  moment,  that  he  never  left  me  all  the  time :  it 
seems  he  must  have  been  fond  of  me  after  all. 

"  Well,  what  was  I  saying !  I  got  thinking  of  old  times  ;  he 
wanted  a  child  so  ;  he  always  had  loved  children.  It  was  not 
me  he  cared  for.  Just  as  soon  as  I  got  well,  it  was  the  old 
trouble  back  again  ;  jealous  like  a  Turk.  I  could  not  stand  it. 
No  woman  can  stand  things  like  that,  Christine." 


A   VOW.  19 

She  sank  back  exhausted  for  a  moment,  though  never  taking 
her  anxious  glittering  eyes  away  from  the  young  girl's  face,  and 
struggling  desperately  for  breath  to  speak  again : — 

"You  will  have  Julian,  as  I  said  :  you  can  live  such  a  happy, 
easy  life.  You  will  have  your  little  fortune,  enough  for  you 
and  him  :  poor  boy,  he  has  not  anything ;  I  had  to  use  it  all, 
these  five  years  that  I  have  been  hiding  him  and  living  in 
strange  cities  ;  to  travel  costs  so  much.  He  is  a  little  pauper, 
that  is  what  he  is,  Christine.  He  is  at  your  mercy.  I  don't 
know  what  will  be  the  end..  My  father  has  not  anything  to 
leave  ;  our  poor  mother  little  thought  there  would  be  only  one 
left  to  have  all  her  fortune.  No  matter,  Christina  :  you  must  do 
as  you  will.  I  cannot  ask  it  of  you.  But  be  kind  to  my  poor 
darling  for  a  little  while  !  Do  not  turn  him  out  just  yet.  He 
has  been  so  petted,  he  has  had  everything  lavished  on  him; 
it  will  be  such  a  change.  If  you  cannot  promise  what  I  ask, 
promise  at  least  to  be  kind  to  him  just  at  first,  for  his  poor  mo 
ther's  sake,  whom  the  good  God  takes  away  from  him." 

"  I  will  promise  anything  you  want,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  low 
tone,  putting  her  hand  up  to  her  head,  as  if  with  an  effort  to 
command  her  thoughts. 

"  I  knew  you  had  a  good  heart,"  murmured  the  dying  woman, 
catching  at  her  hand  and  trying  to  draw  her  towards  her. 
"  Heaven  will  reward  you ;  you  will  be  good  to  Julian,  and  he 
is  an  orphan !  Promise  me  this  :  you  will  not  marry ;  you 
will  live  for  Julian  ;  you  will  take  care  of  him  ;  you  will  share 
your  fortune  with  him ;  you  will  do  your  best  to  keep  him  from 
his  father ;  you  will  never  give  him  up  to  any  one !  Promise 
me  this — quick — I — I  believe  I  am  worse — I  want  to  hear  you 
—speak — " 

"  I  promise." 

The  child's  voice  was  low,  but  steady. 

"  You  promise  it  before  God,  solemnly.  I  am  dying ;  we 
keep  faith  with  the  dying ;  Heaven  curses  those  who  trifle  with 


20  A   VOW. 

the  dead  ;  say  this  one  thing  to  me ;  kneel  down  as  if  you 
said  your  prayers  ;  say  this,  '  /  swear  it?  " 

Christine  sank  trembling  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  feeling 
the  convulsive  grasp  of  her  sister's  cold  and  clammy  hand  and 
the  strange  fascination  of  her  excited  eye ;  but  through  it  all, 
knowing  what  she  did.  The  words  "  before  God,  solemnly"  had 
waked  her  from  her  trance.  The  terrible  weight  of  a  vow 
made  to  a  dying  woman  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  extinguished 
all  childish  terror  and  amazement.  She  was  a  religious  child, 
morbidly  conscientious,  reverent  to  superstition.  Helena  had 
not  watched  her  for  a  month  in  vain.  She  knew  with  whom 
she  had  to  deal :  she  knew  she  could  trust  in  this  pale  child  if 
she  could  once  bring  her  to  pledge  herself  to  what  in  after  years 
she  would  still  look  upon  as  binding. 

"Why  need  I  swear?"  she  murmured,  pressing  her  hands 
before  her  face.  "It  is  so  awful !  I  will  do  all  you  say  without." 

"  0  my  God  !"  cried  the  mother,  in  a  shrill  painful  whisper, 
"she  does  not  mean  that  I  shall  die  in  peace.  Forgive  her,  my 
good  Lord!" 

"  Hush,  hush,"  murmured  the  child,  putting  up  her  hand  to 
stop  her.  "  I — /  swear  it." 

"God  \vill  bless  you,"  gasped  her  dying  sister,  sinking  back 
upon  the  pillow.  "  Kiss  me,  Christine." 

She  pulled  her  faintly  towards  her  with  the  hand  she  had 
retained,  and  the  little  girl  stooping  forward,  their  lips  met ; 
a  touch  that  chilled  her  to  her  very  soul.  For  months  after  she 
never  closed  her  eyes  to  sleep  without  the  shuddering  recollec 
tion  of  those  clammy  lips  on  hers,  that  short  hot  breath  upon 
her  cheek. 

"  You  are  a  good  child,"  she  panted,  holding  her  face  down 
to  hers  :  "  you  must  never  forget  this  day  :  you — you  need  not 
tell  my  father  what  has  passed — between  us — remember — it 
would  distress  him  :  God  is  witness.  Now  go— bring  my  boy 
to  me — quick,  Christine — I — I  am  faint — " 


A    VOW.  21 

The  nurse  came  back  at  a  word  from  Christine.  "Better 
call  her  father,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  after  a  glance  at  the 
changed  face  on  the  pillow,  as  she  hurried  to  the  bed. 

A  few  minutes  later  Christine  led  the  child  into  the  room. 
The  physician,  the  nurse,  and  her  father,  standing  by  the  pillow, 
gave  way  as  she  approached.  The  agonized  eyest>f  the  dying 
woman  had  been  fixed  upon  the  door  by  which  she  entered,  and 
with  a  low  moan  she  faintly  stretched  out  her  arms.  Christine 
lifted  the  child  up  beside  her. 

"  Julian,  darling — kiss  me — look  at  me,"  she  gasped,  in  ac 
cents  that  were  heartrending. 

This  was  a  dreadful  death-scene  ;  the  agony  of  parting  ;  the 
king  of  terrors  dragging  away  his  victim,  who  stretched  her 
arms  back  wildly  to  where  "  low  on  the  earth,  her  heart  and 
treasure  lay."  There  was  no  prayer ;  who  could  pray  ?  The 
grey-haired  father  turned  his  head  away  in  anguish  from  the 
sight ;  even  those  other  two,  familiar  with  death-beds,  felt  awed 
by  this. 

She  caressed  the  boy  with  a  passionate  tenderness,  pressed 
his  curls  against  her  lips,  laid  his  soft  cheek  on  hers,  held  him 
to  her  heart,  called  him  a  thousand  loving  names,  cried  out 
against  the  cruelty  of  death. 

The  final  moment  of  physical  suffering  was  appalling.  She 
had  combated  death  so  long,  that  it  shook  her  fiercely  when 
she  had  to  sink  into  its  grasp.  The  child,  in  terror,  recoiled 
from  her;  she  groped  for  him  with  her  empty  arms,  turned  her 
darkened  eyes  towards  him,  and  murmuring  his  name  in  broken 
accents,  staggered  out  alone  into  the  awful  blackness — the  door 
of  life  and  hope  for  ever  shut  between  her  and  her  idol. 


22  A   STRANGER. 


CHAPTER    III. 

A     STRANGER. 

"  Underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 

Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear  ; 
Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all  save  fear." 

IT  was  more  than  two  years  since  there  had  been  crape  on  Dr. 
Uphara's  door ;  the  boy  Julian  was  two  years  older,  the  girl 
Christine  was  now  sixteen. 

It  was  December;  a  still  clear  evening;  the  little  town  of 

was  lying  in  a  frozen,  silent  way  under  the  stars  and 

moon.  It  was  not  yet  seven,  but  the  moon  was  so  bright  that 
a  traveller,  just  entering  the  town  by  the  western  turnpike, 
slackening  his  horse's  pace,  took  out  his  watch  and  read  the 
hour  distinctly  on  its  face.  He  put  it  back  again,  and  then 
rode  forward  on  a  walk.  He  looked  about  him  thoughtfully, 
and  paused  with  a  moment's  hesitation  when  he  came  to  a 
point  where  the  road  forked.  He  chose  the  right  hand  way  at 
last,  guided  perhaps  by  the  "  twinkling  stars  of  household  light" 
in  the  distance,  and  the  glimmering  of  a  sheet  of  ice  beyond 
the  trees  in  front  of  him. 

He  came  presently  upon  an  old  mill  standing  on  the  edge 
of  the  pond,  with  long  icicles  hanging  from  its  silent  wheel,  and 
the  moonshine  playing  upon  its  padlocked  door  and  dangling 
idle  rope.  The  pond  had  been  frozen  over  only  since  the  night 
before ;  there  were  white  cracks  veining  the  clear  ice,  and  along 
the  dam  and  by  the  bridge  it  had  been  broken  in  several  places. 
The  pond  lay  in  a  sort  of  basin,  with  low  hills  surrounding  it 


A   STRANGER.  23 

on  three  sides — swamp-willows  dipping  down  into  its  brink,  and 
dark  pine  trees  rising  above  it  against  the  sky.  There  was  a 
row  of  old  poplars  bordering  the  road  along  the  dam,  and  the 
bridge,  with  its  gate  now  shut  and  frozen,  was  a  favorite  tryst- 
ing  place  for  the  youth  of on  moonlight  nights  in  sum 
mer. 

As  the  horseman  reached  this  point,  he  suddenly  drew  rein  and 
turned  his  head  towards  the  pond  with  the  air  of  one  who  lis 
tens.  He  fancied  he  had  heard  something  like  a  faint  cry  of 
distress  coming  from  across  the  ice  ;  but  the  moonlight  was  so 
clear,  he  could  see  the  whole  extent  of  its  surface  quite  distinctly, 
except  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  trees  bordering  its  eastern 
edge.  He  stood  still  for  some  minutes ;  called  in  a  clear  voice ; 
waited,  listening  keenly  for  an  answer — called  again  ;  there  was 
complete  silence,  and  he  rode  slowly  forward.  He  had  passed 
the  dam  and  left  the  pond  some  distance  behind  him,  when  he 
abruptly  turned  his  horse's  head  and  retraced  his  steps  thought 
fully.  He  could  not  get  that  faint  cry  out  of  his  ears ;  it  could 
not  have  been  fancy ;  he  was  not  given  to  that  sort  of  thing. 
He  descended  from  his  horse,  leading  him  along  the  dam,  re 
connoitring  the  surroundings  of  the  mill  and  the  edges  of  the 
pond,  and  sending  many  keen  and  anxious  glances  into  the 
shadow  thrown  upon  the  ice  by  the  dark  trees  on  his  left. 

It  was  a  lonely  spot,  though  so  near  the  town.  The  miller's 
house  was  not  far  distant,  but  it  was  out  of  sight ;  he  looked 
around  in  vain  for  some  one  to  consult  with  on  the  sound  that 
had  disturbed  him.  After  all,  it  may  have  been  the  distant 
echo  of  some  schoolboy's  shout  in  the  woods  beyond  the 
swamp ;  it  must  have  been  more  distant  than  the  pond,  or  his 
own  calls  would  have  elicited  some  answer.  He  turned  away 
again,  only  half  satisfied,  however,  and  had  reached  the  end  of 
the  dam,  still  leading  his  horse  and  looking  back  with  an  anxiety 
for  which  he  ridiculed  himself,  when  he  heard  a  voice,  and  turn 
ing  his  head,  saw  a  dark  shadow  lying  across  the  moonlight  in 


24  A   STRANGER. 

his  path.  A  young  girl  was  standing  before  him  wrapped  in  a 
long  cloak,  the  hood  of  which  had  been  drawn  hurriedly  over 
her  head. 

"  Have  you,"  she  said,  speaking  quickly  but  without  a  shade 
of  hesitation,  "  have  you  seen  a  little  boy  anywhere  upon  the 
dam  or  turnpike  ?" 

"  No,"  he  returned,  hesitating  as  he  spoke ;  "  no,  I  have  seen 
no  one." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  half-inaudibly,  without  looking  at 
him  again  as  she  ran  on.  He  paused  and  watched  her ;  she 
stopped  at  the  edge  of  the  pond  and  called  eagerly :  "  Julian  ! 
Julian !" 

At  this  moment  a  boy  crept  through  the  bars  near  where 
the  stranger  stood,  and  was  darting  across  the  road,  when  the 
girl  turned  suddenly  and  saw  him  : 

"  Harry,  Harry  Gilmore  !"  she  called,  springing  towards  him, 
"  where's  Julian  ?  Tell  me,  quick — you've  been  on  the  pond  ; 
you've  had  him  with  you." 

"  What  business  is  it  of  mine  where  he  is?"  muttered  the 
boy,  plunging  down  the  bank  and  striking  into  a  path  across  the 
field.  "  Look  after  him  yourself." 

His  face  had  a  white,  frightened  look,  and  the  haste  he  was 
making  to  get  away  struck  the  stranger  as  suspicious.  He 
approached  the  girl,  who  stood  pale  and  silent,  looking  across 
the  ice. 

"  Is  there  any  path  around  towards  the  east  side  of  the 
pond  ?"  he  asked.  "  That  is  the  only  quarter  of  it  we  cannot 
see  distinctly." 

She  caught  his  meaning,  and  with  a  quick  movement  said 
"  yes,"  and  sprang  towards  a  barred  gate  just  below  which  Har 
ry  Gilmore  had  come  out.  She  pushed  it  open,  and  he  followed 
her,  throwing  the  bridle  of  his  horse  around  the  post.  A  nar 
row  path  led  through  a  thicket  of  swamp-willow  and  alder- 
bnshes,  through  which  his  guide  led  the  way  so  fast  he  scarcely 


A   STRANGER.  25 

could  keep  up  with  her.  It  grew  narrower  and  more  tangled, 
till,  turning  abruptly,  it  led  down  to  the  water's  edge.  They 
saw  that  the  bushes  had  been  broken  down  along  the  path,  and 
that  the  frozen,  marshy  ground  had  tracks  of  wet  and  muddy 
feet.  A  pair  of  skates  lay  in  the  path.  The  girl  reached  the 
water's  edge  before  her  companion  ;  she  uttered  a  low  cry  that 
thrilled  him  painfully.  There  was  a  great  break  in  the  ice  some 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  out  from  the  bank,  against  which  the 
water  was  gurgling  with  a  low  sound  ;  a  boy's  cap  floated  on  it. 

"  Stand  back,  my  girl,"  he  said  quickly,  as  she  made  a  step 
forward  on  the  ice.  "  It  will  not  bear  us  both.  Run  back  and 
get  the  halter  round  my  horse's  neck.  Quick !  Don't  lose  a 
moment." 

She  gave  him  a  bewildered  look  and  minded  him.  He  tore 
his  way  through  the  thicket  to  a  fence  bordering  the  marsh, 
and  pulling  off  two  heavy  rails,  dragged  them  back  to  the  ice. 
Ilis  companion  was  there  almost  as  soon  as  he ;  taking  the 
rope  and  throwing  his  heavy  coat  into  her  arms,  he  bade  her 
keep  it  and  not  move  till  he  came  back  or  called  for  her. 
Moving  cautiously  upon  the  ice,  which  bent  beneath  him,  he 
pushed  the  rails  before  him  till  he  approached  the  crevice,  and 
then  lay  down,  guiding  himself  by  his  hands  alone.  It  was  a 
dangerous  experiment,  and  one  in  which  he  had  very  little 
hope.  The  current  no  doubt  had  sucked  the  body  far  out  of 
reach  by  this  time,  and  there  was  little  chance  that  life  could 
still  exist  in  it,  wherever  it  might  be.  Probably  that  faint  cry 
he  had  heard  had  been  the  last.  A  moment  more  and  he  had 
reached  the  crevice ;  another,  and  the  rope  was  round  a  little 
arm,  caught  by  its  sleeve  in  a  projecting  point  of  ice. 

When  he  approached  the  bank  with  his  dripping  burden  in 
his  arms  the  girl  covered  her  eyes  and  turned  her  head 
away. 

"  Put  my  coat  around  him,"  he  said ;  "  I  think  we  may 
revive  him.  Now,  run  to  my  saddle-bag  for  a  flask  of  brandy.'' 

2 


26  A   STRANGER. 

She  was  out  of  sight  down  the  tangled  path  almost  before 
the  words  left  his  lips.  When  he  emerged  from  the  thicket 
and  reached  the  gate,  she  stood  holding  it  open,  with  the  flask 
of  brandy  in  her  hand.  He  laid  his  burden  down  upon  the 
ground,  turned  the  coat  back  from  the  face,  while  the  girl  again 
turned  away.  He  took  the  brandy  from  her  and  bent  over 
the  child  anxiously  with  one  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  How  far  to  the  village  ?"  he  said,  wetting  his  lips  with 
brandy  and  chafing  his  lifeless  hands. 

"  Not  half  a  mile,"  she  said,  in  a  steady  voice  though  low. 
"  But  there  is  a  short  path  through  a  lane  to  the  church,  and  our 
house  is  next  to  it." 

"  That  is  the  Parsonage  ?"  he  said,  glancing  up  at  her. 
"  Yes,  Dr.  Upham's,"  she   returned.     He   stooped   over  the 
boy  again,  pushed   back  the   yellow   curls    plastered   on   his 
temples  as  the  moonlight  fell  upon  his  face,  then  wrapped  the 
coat  closely  round  him  and  stood  up. 

"  You  will  have  to  lead  my  horse,"  he  said,  "  and  show  me  the 
way  to  the  lane." 

"That  is  the  shortest  way,"  she  said,  disentangling  the  bridle 
with  quick  movements  and  hurrying  forward.  "  But  if  we  go 
by  the  road  we  pass  the  doctor's." 

"  No  matter  for  the  doctor  ;  I  am  one,"  he  said.  •"  All  we 
want  is  to  get  him  home." 

"This  way,"  she  said,  turning  abruptly  down  into  a  lane  that 
crossed  the  road.  "  Mind  the  path ;  it  is  full  of  ruts  and  is 
very  rough." 

That  it  certainly  was  ;  the  stranger  with  difficulty  saved 
himself  from  falling  again  and  again  as  he  plunged  along  the 
dark,  uneven  road. 

"  You  had  better  let  me  carry  him,"  she  added  after  a  while 
in  a  smothered  voice,  in  which  for  the  first  time  there  was 
a  tremble.  Its  intonation  recalled  her  to  her  companion's 
thoughts ;  he  seemed  almost  to  have  forgotten  her. 


A   STRANGER.  27 

"  He  is  very  safe  with  me,"  he  said,  speaking  with  an  effort. 
"  Your  arms  would  not  be  strong  enough  for  such  a  weight." 

"  I  have  often  carried  him." 

"  He  is  your  brother  ?" 

"Yes,"  she   said,  hesitatingly,   "he   is — my   brother;   yes." 

"  You  must  not  be  discouraged,"  he  said,  as  they  plodded 
on  hurriedly  and  silently.  "  He  may  not  have  been  long  in  the 
water.  I  have  seen  many  cases  of  wonderful  resuscitation." 

She  tried  to  answer,  but  her  voice  was  choked. 

They  came  presently  into  a  broad  flood  of  moonshine  ;  she 
was  some  yards  in  advance,  with  her  hand  upon  the  horse's 
bridle,  and  she  paused  and  looked  back,  saying,  "We  are  almost 
there,"  as  the  church  porch  became  visible  through  an  opening 
in  the  trees ;  "  we  must  go  through  the  churchyard ;  it  is  the 
shortest  way." 

"  Leave  the  horse  here,"  said  her  companion,  as  they  reached 
the  unused  gate  that  opened  on  the  lower  side  of  the  church 
yard.  She  hastily  twisted  the  bridle  round  the  low  branch  of 
a  cedar-tree  that  stood  by  the  wall,  and  pushing  open  the  gate, 
went  on  before  him,  picking  her  way  over  the  irregular,  un 
marked  graves  that  filled  this  corner  of  the  yard.  There  was 
no  path ;  the  whole  ground  was  braided  over  with  briers,  and 
brown  with  long  dead  tufts  of  grass.  Twisted  old  cedars  and 
dark  pines  grew  about  the  stone  wall,  and  low  shoots  of  the 
same  trees  had  thrust  themselves  up  through  many  of  the  ne 
glected  mounds.  "  La  plus  morte  mort"  to  be  buried  in  such 
a  spot  as  this. 

As  they  came  out  of  this  briery  desolation  into  the  wider, 
better  tended  plats  of  those  who  slept  nearer  to  the  church, 
Christine  turned  to  wait  for  her  companion. 

"  You  had  better  go  on  into  the  house  before  me,"  he  said. 
"  It  may  save  those  within  a  shock.  I  will  follow  you." 

"  There  is  no  one  but  my  father,"  she  said.  "  Follow  me  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  I  only  need  a  moment  to  tell  him." 


28  A   STRANGER." 

She  disappeared  through  the  side  gate  that  led  into  the  Par 
sonage  enclosure.  Drawing  a  long  breath,  the  stranger  shifted 
his  heavy  burden  to  the  other  arm  and  paused  an  instant.  The 
spot  where  he  stood  was  between  the  garden  wall  of  the  Par 
sonage  and  the  west  transept  of  the  church.  A  long  row  of 
little  graves  lay  in  the  deep  shadow  that  the  building  threw ; 
"but  a  broad  stream  of  moonlight  fell  upon  the  white  marble 
that  terminated  them — a  higher,  fresher  mound,  with  more 
than  one  dead  wreath  upon  it.  The  stranger  looked  down  and 
read  "  Helena"  on  it,  as  he  moved  away  and  went  through  the 
gate  and  along  the  path  that  led  up  to  the  house.  Christine 
was  hurrying  down  the  steps  to  meet  him,  and  a  tall  man  with 
bent  figure  and  grey  hair  stood  in  the  doorway  with  a  bewildered 
and  alarmed  expression. 

"Let  me  take  him  now,"  she  whispered,  putting  out  her 
arms. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you  may,"  he  answered,  huskily.  "  I  confess 
I  am  a  little  shaken." 

He  leaned  for  a  moment  against  a  pillar  that  supported  the 
piazza  roof,  then  followed  them  into  the  house. 


THE   RECTOR.  29 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    RECTOR. 

"  A  lore  benignant  he  hath  lived  and  taught ; 
To  draw  mankind  to  heaven  by  gentleness 
And  good  example,  is  his  business." 

CHAUCER. 

AT  eleven  o'clock  that  evening  Dr.  Upham  sat  with  his  guest 
by  the  dining-room  fire.  Julian,  on  Christine's  bed  up-stairs, 
was  lying  quietly  out  of  all  danger  now,  they  thought.  The 
Rector  was  talking  more  than  usual,  as  people  generally  do 
after  passing  safely  through  a  great  and  sudden  peril.  More 
than  once  he  left  his  chair  and  walked  about  the  room,  talking 
as  he  walked. 

His  companion  was  not  a  nervous  man ;  he  sat  perfectly  still 
and  only  answered  questions ;  he  might  have  been  tired  with 
his  long  journey  and  subsequent  exertions,  but  he  had  not  the 
air  at  all  of  being  weary.  On  the  contrary,  his  quiet,  observant 
eyes  moved  thoughtfully  from  one  thing  to  another  in  the 
room,  while  he  did  not  seem  to  lose  a  word  of  what  Dr.  Up 
ham  said,  and  appeared  to  listen  continually  for  the  slightest 
movemeiic  in  the  room  above. 

He  was  a  well-made  man,  in  stature  a  little  above  middle 
size ;  in  age,  anywhere  between  twenty-eight  and  forty ;  of 
any  country  you  pleased,  and  no  one  guessed  the  one  to  which 
he  actually  belonged;  he  was  blonde,  that  might  have  been 
German  ;  he  was  admirably  well  bred,  that  looked  like  French ; 
he  was  dressed  in  good  style,  but  with  a  certain  heaviness  and 
roughness  that  seemed  extremely  English.  There  was  an  in- 


30  THE   KECTOB. 

dcscribable  peculiarity  in  his  literal,  close-shaven  language,  that 
showed  him  to  have  learned  it  as  a  foreigner,  or  to  have  been 
long  out  of  the  habit  of  using  it  familiarly.  He  seemed  a  good 
physician  and  to  have  perfect  confidence  in  himself,  since,  in  the 
present  case,  which  seemed  to  interest  him,  he  had  desired  no 
assistance  from  the  family  attendant,  and  had  even  said  he 
thought  it  was  unnecessary  to  have  him  called ;  and  such  was 
the  reliance  that  his  cool,  prompt  ways  inspired,  that  Dr.  Up- 
ham  countermanded  the  order  he  had  issued  to  send  for  Dr. 
Thurston,  before  he  had  been  ten  minutes  in  the  house. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  said,  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  past 
his  guest's  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  "  the  fact  is,  my  confidence 
in  Dr.  Thurston  is  not  entirely  established  yet ;  he  is  but  a 
young  man,  and  has  only  been  practising  eighteen  months  or 
so.  He  may  do  very  well,  but  we  miss  our  old  physician  sadly. 
He  has  been  dead  almost  two  years ;  he  attended  my  eldest 
daughter  during  her  last  illness  ;  this  house  was  about  the  last 
he  visited.  Poor  Johnson  !  it  will  be  long  before  we  can  sup 
ply  bis  place.  This  brisk  young  fellow  makes  a  strange  and 
uncomfortable  contrast  to  him.  Where  are  you  practising,  Dr. 
Catherwood  ?" 

The  question  was  abrupt ;  the  stranger  gave  a  little  start, 
perhaps  because  he  was  not  prepared  for  anything  abrupt  from 
his  benevolent,  mild-eyed  host ;  but  recovering  his  easy  manner 
almost  instantly,  he  returned  : 

"  Nowhere  at  present ;  in  fact,  I  have  never  practised  regu 
larly  at  any  time.  I  filled  a  professorship  a  year  or  two  in 
D ,  but  my  experience  has  been  principally  confined  to  hos 
pital  practice  and  desultory  attendance  upon  cases  that  have 
come  particularly  to  my  notice  in  the  neighborhood  where  I 
have  happened  to  be  staying.  I  have  never  desired  the  confine 
ment  of  an  established  professional  life.  My  habits  of  travel 
and  desire  for  change  unfit  me  for  it ;  I  should  find  it  very  irk- 
Bome." 


THE   EECTOE.  81 

"  That  I  can  understand  in  early  life ;  but  at  your  age,  my  dear 
sir,  a  man  finds  his  happiness  best  secured  in  a  settled  home." 

The  good  Rector  was  a  little  frightened  after  he  found  he  had 
said  "at  your  age,"  and  looked  with  a  slight  anxiety  at  his 
guest ;  but  his  guest  was  beyond  the  point  where  people  wince 
at  being  told  what  their  faces  make  no  secret  of;  he  reassured 
Dr.  Upham  by  a  little  smile,  and  Dr.  Upham,  who  had  an  idea 
in  his  mind  that  for  the  moment  drove  everything  else  out  of  it, 
went  on  with  some  animation. 

"  The  world,  it  is  a,^  very  good  school ;  I  would  send  a  boy 
into  it  as  I  would  send  him  off  with  his  hornbook  to  the  near 
est  dame  a  little  earlier ;  but,  my  dear  sir,  a  man  doesn't  want 
to  go  to  school  through  his  whole  life.  The  cream  of  existence 
never  rises  till  he  settles  into  quiet ;  he's  not  worth  much  to 
the  world  or  to  himself  till  he  brings  his  knowledge,  his  expe 
rience  into  port ;  he  might  drift  about  till  doomsday,  with  the 
wealth  of  the  Indies  all  aboard,  and  nobody  be  any  better  for 
it.  The  hardest,  dullest  bit  of  stone,  without  a  spray  of  moss 
upon  it ;  believe  me,  Dr.  Catherwood,  repose  is  as  necessary  to 
the  last  half  of  a  man's  life  as  action  is  to  the  first.  You  under 
stand  what  I  mean  by  repose — no  relation  in  the  world  to  indo 
lence.  One  cannot  extend  himself,  his  influence  and  energy, 
over  the  surface  of  the  globe ;  he  has  wasted  himself  till  he  has 
brought  it  all  to  bear  upon  one  spot ;  the  smaller,  sometimes  it 
seems,  the  better  chance  he  has  of  doing  work  that  can  be  seen 
without  the  microscope." 

His  listener's  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  on  the  burning  coals 
upon  the  hearth ;  there  was  a  shade  of  bitterness  about  his 
mouth — a  shade  so  delicate  that  sometimes  it  seemed  like  sad 
ness  only  ;  he  did  not  reply  when  his  host  paused,  nor  change 
his  attitude  or  expression  when  he  resumed  his  theme.  It  was 
not  till  Dr.  Upham,  following  out  the  thought  upon  which  ho 
had  been  enlarging,  said  :  "  I  infer  you  are  not  a  man  of  family  ?" 
that  he  raised  his  eyes  and  answered  : 


32  THE   RECTOK. 

"  There  are  few  men  as  free  from  ties  as  I  am,  sir.  It  is 
years  since  I  have  known  anything  of  family  relations ;  the 
pleasure  of  giving  protection  and  of  being  protected  are  alike 
among  the  memories  of  my  earlier  life.  At  this  moment  I  stand 
that  point  of  isolation — my  fate  is  necessarily  of  consequence 
to  no  one  living  but  myself." 

There  was  a  pause  ;  Dr.  Upham  began  to  see  he  had  been 
almost  rude,  and  his  guest  began  to  feel  he  owed  it  to  his 
entertainer  to  tell  him  something  of  himself.  It  cost  him 
an  effort,  though,  to  do  it ;  he  spoke  after  a  moment  without 
hesitation,  but  with  a  precision  that  showed  he  was  measuring 
his  words. 

"  I  have  been  so  long  away  from  my  country,  I  shall  hardly 
find  myself  at  home  even  in  my  native  State.  I  landed  at  New 
York  last  week  after  an  absence  from  America  of  thirteen 
years,  and  am  wandering  about  now,  almost  aimlessly,  putting  off 
the  evil  day  of  a  return  to  Virginia,  where  there  awaits  me 
nothing  but  the  vacant  home  of  my  early  boyhood.  Not  one 
member  of  the  narrow  family  circle  has  survived  my  exile ; 
I  cannot  hurry  back  where  there  is  no  fireside — only  a  grave 
yard.  '  Who  breaks,  pays ;'  my  wanderings  have  cost  me 
dear." 

"  Then  let  me  counsel  yon,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  to  pay  off 
quickly  and  begin  upon  another  score.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  time  lost  often  in  bickering  about  charges,  and  showing 
•why  things  were  not  different :  avoid  that  like  a  wise  man ; 
confess  you  have  been  an  ungrateful  wretch,  and  have  cheated 
your  country  of  your  best  years ;  go  down  to  Virginia,  pass  a 

few  weeks  in  penitence,  and  then  come  back  to ,  take  poor 

Johnson's  pretty  cottage  there  below  the  mill,  step  into  a  hand 
some  practice  instantly,  assume  your  place  among  your  country 
men,  take  hold  of  the  work  for  which  you  are  so  fitted,  and 
lead  the  quietest,  safest,  honestest  life  a  man  can  live.  You  are 
too  well  seasoned  to  grow  rusty ;  there  is  never  any  danger  of 


THE   RECTOR.  33 

rust  where  there  is  activity  of  body  with  time  enough  for  men 
tal  exercise  and  contact  with  minds  above  and  below  medio 
crity,  as  in  such  a  place  as  this,  within  easy  reach  of  the  stir 
ring  influences  of  town.  Sir,  I  cannot  picture  to  myself  a  life 
more  profitable,  more  comfortable.  At  your  age,  and  in  your 
position,  it  would  have  been  seducing  to  me.  I  want  you  to 
come  here  ;  I  am  ready  to  acknowledge,  the  society  of  a  scholar, 
and  the  desire  of  having  again  a  reliable  physician  for  my 
family,  make  me  somewhat  selfish  in  my  counsel,  but  I  am  cer 
tain  it  will  be  for  your  own  good.  I  know  the  place  thorough 
ly  ;  forty  years,  forty  years,  sir,  in  this  very  Parsonage.  I  came 
here  in  deacon's  orders  ;  it  was  a  young  parish  then  ;  they 
gave  me  the  Parsonage  and  three  hundred  dollars.  That  was 
a  good  deal  more  than  the  Parsonage  and  three  hundred  dollars 
would  be  to-day  ! 

"  I  built  up  the  parish.  I  suppose  I  feel  as  if  they  were  my 
children,  all  of  them.  I  taught  a  class  of  boys  at  first,  and 
stretched  out  the  three  hundred  in  that  way.  Then  I  married  ; 
my  wife  was  rich  ;  we  let  the  little  boys  go  home,  you  may  be 
sure  !  We  enlarged  the  Parsonage,  gave  the  three  hundred 
to  the  poor,  and  so  it  has  gone  on.  I  take  nothing  from  my 
parish  but  the  Parsonage,  and  that  accounts  for  it  that  they  are 
not  tired  of  their  old  minister ;  or  if  they  are,  that  they  consent 
to  smother  their  discontent.  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  a  little  hard 
upon  them  ;  I  am  afraid  they  have  outgrown  me ;  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  let  them  send  for  Saul.  But  then  that  would 
almost  be  suicide ;  it  would  break  me  up  entirely,  and  it  would 
not  be  for  their  good  either,  that  I  can  really  see.  Alaking 
haste  to  be  rich  is  the  error  of  our  time,  Dr.  Catherwood,  just  as 
much  in  spiritual  as  in  worldly  matters.  People  are  getting 
impatient  of  the  time  required  for  healthy  growth  ;  they  stimu 
late,  they  resort  to  strong  devices  to  improve  themselves  ;  and 
so  a  fast  religion  has  come  into  fashion,  and  I  am  out  of  date. 
I  have  thought  it  over  a  great  deal ;  sometimes  I  decide  in  favor 

2* 


34  THE   KECTOR. 

of  the  son  of  Kish,  and  sometimes  I  conclude  they  need  me 
most  when  they  desire  me  least. 

"  But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  :  they  want  a  new  physi 
cian,  Dr.  Catherwood,  whatever  we  may  think  about  their  need 
of  a  new  clergyman.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  it  is  a  sound  and 
well  built  sort  of  place,  this ;  I  do  not  know  where  you  would  go 
to  find  a  better  set  of  people  in  the  main.  There  are  several 
families  where  you  can  feel  yourself  among  companionable 
minds — a  small  society  of  refined  and  well-bred  persons,  mixing 
part  of  the  year  in  the  outside  world,  and  bringing  back  a  good 
deal  of  its  vigor  with  them.  Then  the  larger  class  among  whom 
your  labors  would  call  you  are  of  a  good,  substantial  sort ;  better,  I 
believe  impartially,  than  the  average  population  of  small  towns. 

"  It  is  not  what  it  was  fifty  years  ago  ;  we  are  brought  within 
four  hours  of  the  city;  education  has  been  greatly  cared  for; 
those  two  unsightly  factories  on  the  river  above  the  town  have 
sent  a  great  deal  of  fresh  blood  through  its  veins ;  they  have 
brought  in  a  less  desirable  element,  it  is  true,  but  they  have 
also  given  a  fresh  impetus  to  those  of  the  townspeople  who 
without  them  would  be  idle,  or  who  would  be  forced  to  go 
abroad  for  work.  I  am  old  fogy,  but  I  do  not  care  to  have  the 
world  stand  still  for  all  that.  I  liked  it  better  as  it  was  in  my 
young  days ;  but  I  do  not  desire  to  put  it  back  to  what  it  was 
then,  knowing  that  seeing  it  through  young  eyes  gave  it  its 
charm,  perhaps ;  and  there  are  plenty  of  young  eyes  looking  at 
it  now. 

"Well, was  a  village  when  I  came  into  it;  it  is  a  town 

now,  and  they  begin  to  light  the  streets  with  gas.  It  has  had 
the  grace  to  grow  up  a  little  out  of  my  sight,  however,  and 
leave  me  and  my  church  almost  rural  yet ;  but  it  has  trebled 
the  value  of  some  acres  of  mine  in  the  village,  and  has  added 
a  good  many  thousands  to  my  little  Christine's  inheritance. 
That,  they  might  tell  you,  has  reconciled  me  to  the  progress 
we  are  making ;  but  I  think  not 


THE   RECTOR.  ifo 

"You  are  reflecting  upon  my  proposal,  I  can  see,  Dr.  Gather- 
wood.  I  will  not  press  it  upon  you  further,  but  I  shall  not 
cease  to  hope  you  will  think  well  of  it.  There  is  no  need  of  a 
decision  for  the  present;  look  about  you  for  a  few  months, 
only  bearing  this  in  mind.  If  you  decide  favorably  upon  it, 
remember  my  influence  will  be  exerted  to  the  utmost  to  make 
your  position  here  all  that  you  could  wish  immediately,  and 
that  the  Parsonage  will  always  hold  a  most  grateful  welcome 
for  you." 

"  Your  kindness  touches  me  very  much,  sir,"  said  the  guest, 
rising  and  holding  out  his  hand  to  Dr.  Upham  with  a  mingled 
expression  of  pain  and  gratitude.  "  Your  confidence  in  me 
while  still  a  stranger  makes  me  honor  you,  and  distrust  myself 
and  my  own  ability  to  meet  your  generous  expectations  of  me." 

"  You  can  never  be  a  stranger  in  the  house  that  owes  you 
what  this  does,  Dr.  Catherwood ;  and  for  the  rest,  I  trust  to  my 
own  instincts.  I  have  not  studied  men  for  sixty  years  in  vain, 
I  think.  I  do  not  ask  any  more  of  you  than  you  choose  to  tell 
me ;  your  past  history  may  be  a  sealed  book  for  ever  if  you 
please.  All  I  ask  is  some  assurance  of  your  professional 
ability,  some  evidence  of  your  standing  among  physicians, 
to  build  the  faith  of  other  men  upon,  and  the  matter  of  forma 
lities  is  past.  You  will  begin  a  new  score  with  time,  as  I  have 

said ;  and  date  from  the  little  town  of in  the  year  one 

of  grace.  A  stranger !  no  no,  my  dear  sir.  If  you  had  been 
my  bitterest  enemy,  you  would  have  earned  my  friendship  by 
your  work  this  night;  being  but  a  stranger,  you  have  made 
yourself  my  friend  for  ever,  no  matter  what  the  future  may 
bring  forth. 

"  When  I  think,"  he  added,  dropping  his  hand  and  pacing  the 
floor  in  agitation,  "  what  a  scene  this  house  would  have  pre 
sented  at  this  moment  but  for  you,  I  cannot  control  myself; 
I  forget  my  grey  hairs  and  my  many  sorrows.  I  forget  the  many 
scenes  of  dismay  and  anguish  it  has  presented !  I  could  find 


36  THE   EECTOE. 

it  in  my  heart  to  say  this  would  have  been  a  sorrow  I  could 
not  have  borne,  used  as  I  am  to  'sorrows  of  all  sizes.'  Towards 
old  age,  my  friend,  there  is  a  lack  of  strength ;  my  heart  is 
weak  towards  poor  Helena's  boy  ;  he  is  the  last  link  that 
binds  me  to  the  beloved  past.  My  little  girl  is  the  child  of  my 
sad  old  age  ;  Julian  is  the  souvenir  of  ray  happy  prime.  I  love 
his  mother  in  him — his  mother,  the  first-born  in  this  old  house, 
the  beauty,  the  darling  of  my  home!  The  law  of  primogeniture 
has  its  seat  beyond  the  reach  of  legislation.  Poor,  poor  Helena ! 
A  blighted,  strange  career !  She  was  but  little  comfort  to  me ; 
rather  a  constant  pain ;  but  I  hold  her  memory  dearer  than  a 
world  of  comfort  and  prosperity  ;  I  love  her  boy,  inheritor  of 
her  many  faults,  as  I  have  loved  nothing  since  my  youth.  She 
worshipped  him. ;  I  say  it  with  a  sigh  ;  the  mother,  in  her,  swal 
lowed  up  all  other  feelings ;  she  would  have  died,  I  almost 
think  she  did  die  for  him  ;  and  to  have  lost  him  so,  to  have  had 
him  perish  so  soon  after  she  had  left  him  with  us,  would  have 
broken  my  old  heart,  shattered  my  old  brain.  God  has  made 
you  the  instrument  of  this  great  mercy  to  our  family,  and  it  is 
not  possible  we  ever  should  forget  it." 

There  was  a  long  silence  ;  the  clergyman  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  ;  the  stranger  sat  by  the  fireside,  his  face  shaded  by 
his  hand.  The  lamp  was  growing  dim,  the  wood  had  fallen  into 
ashes  on  the  hearth ;  presently  the  clock  struck  twelve. 

The  clergyman  started  and  glanced  up  at  it. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,"  he  said,  as  he  took  a  candle  from  the 
sideboard  and  lighted  it  at  the  fire.  "  Your  room  is  the  right 
hand  front-room  on  the  floor  above,  opposite  the  one  where  the 
boy  lies.  Perhaps  you  will  look  in  at  him  as  you  go  up." 

Julian  was  in  a  quiet  sleep  ;  his  young  aunt  was  sitting 
motionless  beside  the  bed. 

Indeed  she  sat  so  nearly  all  the  night.  She  watched  the 
new-comer  go  into  that  dark  chamber  with  a  shiver,  wondering 
if  he  did  not  feel  as  he  entered  it  that  death  had  been-  a  guest 


THE    RECTOR.  37 

there  once.  The  great  canopied  bed  and  silent  walls  told 
nothing  to  him,  perhaps,  of  what  they  said  to  her ;  but  as  the 
night  wore  on,  she  sat  and  watched  in  a  sort  of  fascination  the 
bright  streak  of  light  under  the  door  that  for  hours  and  hours 
did  not  disappear. 


38  DE.    CATHERWOOD. 


CHAPTER  V. 

DR.    CATHERWOOD. 

"  Who  rides  his  sure  and  easy  trot, 
While  the  world  now  rides  by,  now  lags  behind." 

HERB1KT, 

IN  the  early  part  of  May  there  was  a  reign  of  carpenters, 
painters,  and  house-cleaners  at  the  little  cottage  beyond  the 
mill ;  in  the  latter  part  of  the  same  month  there  was  a  restora 
tion  of  order  and  tranquillity,  following  the  arrival  of  a  middle- 
aged,  energetic  woman,  who  made  herself  the  terror  of  the 
dilatory  artists,  and  had  the  happiness  of  welcoming  her  master 
to  a  habitable  house. 

There  was  soon  a  name  upon  the  long-closed  door  that  the 
boys  spelled  over  on  their  way  to  school,  and  the  villagers  mis 
called  in  every  imaginable  manner  : 

DR.  EDWARD  CATHERWOOD. 

The  stable  had  been  put  in  better  order  than  the  house,  and  in 
it  was  installed  a  fine,  high-stepping  horse,  that  the  doctor  drove 
before  his  buggy,  and  a  light-built,  pretty  mare,  which  he  rode 
more  frequently  in  his  errands  out  into  the  country. 

For  the  doctor  had  errands  in  many  different  directions,  not 
withstanding  the  predictions  of  little  Dr.  Thurston,  who  was, 
in  a  measure,  beside  himself,  at  the  intrusion.  He  gave  up 
his  pew  in  the  church  at  the  first  receipt  of  the  news,  and 
took  a  "sitting"  in  the  Baptist  edifice,  by  way  of  stabbing 
Dr.  Upham  in  his  tenderest  vein ;  he  canvassed  the  country 
zealously,  and  blackened  the  new-comer's  character  with  too  visi- 


DB.   CATHEEWOOD.  39 

ble  a  spleen  ;  he  worked  himself  quite  lean  and  yellow  during 
the  early  spring,  and  was  laid  up  with  a  bilious  fever  before  the 
new  doctor  actually  took  possession  of  his  quarters.  All  of 
which  militated  very  much  against  him.  He  had  aroused  pub 
lic  curiosity  to  a  high  point ;  and  before  he  was  in  the  field 
again  the  whole  town  had  taken  occasion  to  have  an  illness,  and 
had  sent  for  Dr.  Catherwood  to  see  what  he  was  like. 

He  was  like  something  so  very  easy  and  pleasant,  that  they 
all  wanted  an  excuse  to  employ  him  constantly  ;  and  the  yellow 
little  practitioner  met  so  small  a  degree  of  enthusiasm  on  his 
first  round  of  visits,  that  it  threw  him  back  a  whole  fortnight 
in  his  convalescence. 

Besides  his  pleasant  and  easy  manner,  and  the  prestige  of 
being  a  bad  fellow,  the  new  doctor  had  in  his  favor  the  patron 
age  of  those  few  families  who  constituted  the  polite  society  of 

,  and  that  made  him  much  desired  by  those  who  were 

outside  of  that  society.  He  became,  in  fact,  a  greater  favorite 
than  suited  him  exactly  ;  it  was  not  altogether  the  high  virtue 
that  it  seemed,  when  he  praised  Dr.  Thurston's  practice  among 
his  temporary  patients,  and  turned  them  back  to  his  care  the 
very  moment  he  was  able  to  ride  out. 

Dr.  Upham's  advice  appeared,  on  the  whole,  to  have  been 
judicious ;  there  seemed  every  reason  to  believe  that  Dr.  Ca 
therwood  had  done  well  to  come  to  anchor  in  the  little  town  of 

.  The  slight  shade  of  bitterness  that,  on  that  first  visit, 

Dr.  Upham  had  fancied  he  noticed  on  his  face,  had  now  quite 
passed  away.  The  good  old  man  began  to  doubt  whether  it 
ever  had  been  there  ;  whether  his  guest  had  a  history,  after  all ; 
and  whether  he  had  not  been  mistaken  in  fancying  him  a  dis 
appointed  and  world-weary  man.  He  talked  very  freely  of  his 
travels,  his  foreign  education,  the  shortness  of  the  period  he 
had  spent  in  his  own  country  between  boyhood  and  manhood ; 
but  he  was  of  that  rare  order  of  talkers  who  interest  with 
out  ever  being  personal.  He  seldom  talked  of  people,  even  the 


40  DR.    CATHERWOOD. 

people  among  whom  he  practised  every  day,  although  he  acted 
always  upon  a  most  accurate  knowledge  of  their  characters. 

The  Parsonage  became  his  second  home ;  no  companion 
seemed  to  suit  Dr.  Upham  half  as  well.  A  day  seldom  passed 
when  he  did  not  take  some  meal  with  the  family,  or  spend  an 
hour  or  two  on  the  piazza  smoking  with  the  Rector ;  while 
Christine  worked  or  read  in  one  of  the  windows,  and  Julian 
played  about  the  garden,  now  in  the  full  bloom  of  summer.  If 
he  ever  failed  to  come,  Julian  was  certain  to  be  sent  down  to 
the  cottage  with  a  note,  saying  that  that  box  of  books  had 
come  from  town  ;  or,  there  was  a  fine  saddle  of  mutton  for  din 
ner  ;  or,  Dr.  Upham  was  out  of  tobacco,  and  begged  he  would 
bring  some  up  for  him  in  the  evening. 

The  Parsonage  certainly  was  a  pleasant  house  to  be  at  home 
in ;  few  men  could  have  resisted  its  attractions,  coming  from 
however  comfortable  a  bachelor  establishment.  The  ways 
were  old-fashioned,  but  they  were  of  the  best  fashion  of  a  very 
sensible  day.  The  table  was  always  admirable  and  well  or 
dered.  If  the  house  had  been  gloomy  a  few  years  ago,  that 
was  wearing  off.  No  house  can  be  gloomy  long  with  a  fresh 
young  girl  and  a  noisy  little  boy  among  its  articles  of  furni 
ture.  Christine  had  companions  of  her  own  age  now  who 
came  sometimes  to  see  her ;  Julian  was  hand-in-glove  with 
every  rascal  in  the  neighborhood,  and  Dr.  Catherwood's  pre 
sence  always  had  an  invigorating  effect  upon  the  Rector. 

But  beyond  the  matter  of  hospitality,  Julian's  illnesses  were 
continually  calling  him  to  the  house ;  Dr.  Upham  would  have 
considered  half  his  income  well  laid  out  in  securing  such  a 
medical  attendant  for  the  boy.  He  was  a  child  requiring  the 
most  constant  care ;  he  did  not  seem  at  all  to  outgrow  his  early 
delicacy ;  any  over-excitement  or  imprudence  was  invariably 
succeeded  by  convulsive  attacks  of  a  most  alarming  nature. 
His  nervous  system  seemed  always  in  the  same  excited  state ; 
his  wildness  and  restlessness  were  beyond  control ;  a  whole 


DE.    CATIIERWOOD.  41 

nursery  full  of  ordinary  children  would  have  been  an  easy 
charge  compared  with  that  of  this  elfish,  untamed  boy.  If,  as 
it  is  said,  the  real  education  of  a  child  is  accomplished  within 
the  first  three  years  of  his  existence,  Julian's  strange,  wilful 
temper  was  not  to  be  wondered  at;  but  upon  merely  physical 
grounds,  his  grandfather  accounted  for  all,  and  excused  all  ten 
derly.  Such  a  sensitive  organization  as  his  could  not  be  sub 
jected  to  ordinary  discipline  ;  he  must  not  be  thwarted  ;  as  his 
strength  increased,  and  he  outgrew  his  present  difficulties,  he 
would  learn  to  govern  himself  and  be  like  other  children. 

To  all  of  which  Christine  assented  silently. 

Julian,  though  looking  scarcely  eight,  was  now  eleven.  He 
was  very  delicately  made,  exquisitely  little,  with  the  fairest  skin 
and  very  large  blue  eyes.  He  still  wore  his  yellow  curls  down 
to  his  waist,  and  was  yet  dressed  in  very  childish  style,  in  the 
rich  clothes  his  poor  mother  had  brought  with  her  from  abroad. 
There  was  a  trunk  full  of  embroideries  not  yet  made  up,  velvets 
and  cashmeres  still  to  be  braided  and  cut  out ;  plumes,  buckles, 
and  mosaics,  fit  for  the  wardrobe  of  a  little  prince.  Christine 
had  charming  taste,  and  worked  her  pretty  fingers  weary  on  his 
clothes ;  and  the  result  was,  the  disedification  of  the  critical  por 
tion  of  the  congregation,  and  the  clamorous  condemnation  of 
the  extravagant  ways  of  the  parson's  family  by  the  town  at 
large.  SQ  little  is  the  popular  judgment  worth  ;  this  work  was 
a  religious  duty  with  Christine,  and  the  Rector  could  not  have 
told  whether  his  little  grandson  wore  linsey-woolsey  or  Lyons 
velvet. 

Master  Julian  never  thought  of  attending  to  what  his  grand 
father  advised  ;  he  scouted  the  influence  of  Christine ;  he  bullied 
openly  his  bonne  ;  he  carried  fire  and  sword  into  the  kitchen ; 
only  of  Dr.  Catherwood  did  he  stand  in  any  awe.  The  Doctor 
alone  could  induce  him  to  take  his  medicines ;  he  never  dared 
to  disobey  the  Doctor's  injunction  to  lie  still  and  to  stay  in  the 
house.  And  though  he  never  showed  the  least  affection  for 


42  DB.    CATHERWOOD. 

any  liring  thing,  his  interest  in  this  new  member  of  the  family 
circle  bore  more  resemblance  to  that  sentiment  than  any  other 
he  ever  had  exhibited.  He  was  willing  to  come  into  the  house 
when  Dr.  Catherwood  was  there ;  and  though  he  never  expressed 
any  pleasure  when  he  came,  or  any  regret  when  he  went,  and 
generally  refused  to  kiss  him,  and  often  pouted  when  he  spoke 
to  him,  it  was  assented  to  by  all,  Dr.  Catherwood  was  the  only 
person  who  could  do  anything  with  Julian. 


EARLY   SUMMER. 


43 


CHAPTER  VI. 

EARLY    SUMMER. 

"  Heaven's  soft  azure  In  her  eye  Is  seen ; 
Bhe  seems  a  rose-bud  when  It  first  receives 
The  genial  sun  in  its  expanding  leaves." 

IT  was  about  half  an  hour  before  tea-time,  a  fine  July  after 
noon.  Dr.  Catherwood  came  in  at  the  gate  of  the  Parsonage 
and  walked  slowly  up  the  boxwooded  path  to  the  piazza. 
There  was  no  one  on  the  piazza ;  Julian's  hoop  and  a  muddy 
little  pair  of  overshoes  lay  at  one  end,  but  no  Julian  was  in 
sight.  Dr.  TJpham's  hat  and  cane  were  gone  from  the  hall 
table,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  parlor. 

So,  thought  the  new-comer,  I  am  here  alone  till  tea-time. 
The  wind  was  waving  slightly  the  white  muslin  curtain  at  the 
western  window,  and  on  the  stiff,  high-backed,  mahogany  chair 
beside  it  lay  a  work-basket  and  a  book,  the  reader's  place 
marked  by  a  handful  of  mignonette.  He  lifted  up  the  piece  of 
muslin  that  lay  in  the  pretty  little  basket,  a  half  finished  em 
broidered  shirt  of  Julian's,  and  looked  at  it  thoughtfully  for  a 
moment,  then  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  book.  It  was 
"  Evangeline ;"  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  walked  towards  the 
door,  stopping  on  his  way  to  take  a  cigar  out  of  a  box  upon  the 
bookcase  in  the  corner,  and  a  match  from  the  safe  beside  it.  The 
back  and  front  hall-doors  stood  open  ;  he  lit  his  cigar  as  he  passed 
out  upon  the  back  porch  and  down  the  steps  into  the  garden. 

There  was  a  long  walk  passing  under  a  grape-vine  arbor 
down  the  centre  of  the  garden ;  on  one  side  were  flowerbeds 
full  of  old-fashioned,  sweet-smelling  flowers;  on  the  other,  a 
grass-plat  planted  with  trees  and  shrubs,  extending  to  another 


44  EARLY   SUMMER. 

walk,  bordered  by  a  hedge  of  box  that  ran  along  the  whole 
side  of  the  enclosure,  next  the  churchyard  wall.  Below  the 
garden  and  the  shrubbery,  at  the  termination  of  the  covered 
walk,  there  was  an  orchard,  not  separated  from  the  garden  by 
a  fence,  but  extending  back  for  about  an  acre  to  the  stone  wall 
that  enclosed  the  whole  of  the  Parsonage  grounds.  The  trees 
were  old,  but  most  of  them  were  full  of  fruit.  The  grass  was 
short  and  even  ;  and  around  the  centre  of  one  tree,  just  at  the 
termination  of  the  vine-covered  walk,  there  was  a  circular 
bench  to  which  the  smoker  made  his  way.  An  opening  had 
been  cut  in  the  branches  facing  the  walk  ;  on  all  other  sides  the 
boughs  drooped  quite  down  upon  the  ground. 

It  was  a  favorite  after-dinner  lounge  of  his  ;  he  threw  him 
self  upon  the  bench,  resting  his  elbow  on  the  little  table  by  it, 
and  drew  the  book  out  from  his  pocket.  He  had  not  read 
many  minutes,  however,  before  he  looked  up,  distracted  by  a 
flutter  of  white  garments  down  the  path.  It  was  Christine 
coming  towards  him  with  an  open  note  in  her  hand.  She 
paused  at  the  entrance  of  his  retreat,  and  looked  in  at  him 
smiling. 

"  I  missed  my  book,"  she  said,  "  and  was  certain  you  had  gone 
off  with  it." 

"  Well,  you  can  have  it,"  he  said,  making  room  for  her  on  the 
bench  beside  him,  and  taking  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  doubt,  if  I  wanted  it,"  she  answered  ;  "  but  I 
don't." 

"  There  is  an  excitement,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  as  he  laid 
down  his  book.  "  What  has  arrived  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing  of  moment,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  laugh, 
pushing  aside  the  branches  and  coming  to  the  seat  beside  him. 

She  was  dressed  in  white,  with  a  pale-green  bow  of  ribbon  at 
her  throat ;  her  shoulders,  which  were  beautifully  formed  and 
white,  showed  through  the  transparent  muslin  of  her  dress  ;  and 
her  full,  thin  sleeves  did  not  hide  the  roundness  and  fairness  of 
her  arms.  Her  skin  was  ordinarily  pale,  but  was  tinged  now 


EARLY   SUMMER.  45 

with  a  faint  pink,  and  her  dark-brown  eyes  had  an  unusual 
brightness  in  them.  Her  forehead  was  low,  and  her  bright 
auburn  hair,  showing  a  gleam  of  reddish  gold  in  every  wave, 
was  fastened  in  a  heavy  knot  at  the  back  of  her  well  shaped 
head.  This  last  year  had  developed  more  beauty  in  her  than 
her  childhood  promised.  People  were  beginning  to  say,  Why, 
that  little  Upham  girl  is  going  to  be  pretty,  after  all. 

Dr.  Cathcrwood  did  not  look  at  her  again  as  she  sat  down 
beside  him,  but  said,  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  and 
putting  a  card  in  the  book  where  he  had  left  off  reading : 

"  Pale-green  is  your  color ;   did  you  know  it  ?" 

"  Is  it  ?  Well — I  think  you  have  forgotten  what  you  asked 
me  to  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  have  not.     Who  is  the  note  from  ?" 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  it  is  from  the  Hill — from  Mrs.  Roger  Sher 
man,  who  has  just  come  from  abroad,  you  know.  She  has  been 
away  for  three  years  and  more ;  the  house  has  been  shut  up  ; 
and  she  is  going  to  give  a  party  now.  She  is  always  giving 
parties,  I  believe.  And  she  has  invited  me.  I  wonder  how 
she  came  to  think  of  it ;  she  is  very  kind." 

"  Very  kind,"  repeated  Dr.  Catherwood,  with  a  little  smile. 

"  Why,  you  see,  she  never  used  to  invite  me ;  and  I  don't 
believe  she  ever  spoke  to  me  in  her  life." 

"  But  you  are  a  young  lady  now,  you  know,"  said  Dr.  Ca 
therwood. 

"  Seventeen,  next  December,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully. 
"  Yes,  that  is  grown  up,  almost." 

"  And  you  will  be  invited  to  parties  often,  now,  of  course," 
he  continued.  "  It  is  time  you  began  to  think  about  it." 

She  gave  a  nervous  little  laugh. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  never  was  invited  to  a  party  before  in  my 
life.  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  pleased  or  not." 

"  Oh,  you  are  pleased,  take  my  word  for  it,"  said  her  compa 
nion.  "  It  has  almost  turned  your  head." 


46  TCARLY   SUMMER. 

u  But  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  it — had  I  better  go  ? 
And  must  I  write  an  answer  to  the  note  ?  I  haven't  an  idea 
what  to  say.  And  I  really  don't  know  what  to  wear,  if  I 
should  go.  You  see  there  is  nobody  to  tell  me  about  any 
thing.  » 

Her  companion  dropped  his  light  tone  when  she  said  this, 
and  taking  the  note,  glanced  over  it,  saying,  •'  Let  us  see.  Yes, 
it  requires  an  answer,  either  way  :  we  will  write  it  when  we  go 
into  the  house.  About  accepting — I  cannot  see  any  reason 
why  you  should  not  accept.  Your  father  will  say  yes,  no  doubt, 
and  I  think  you  will  enjoy  it." 

"  But  then — there  is  nobody  to  take  me  !  I  hadn't  thought 
of  that !» 

"  True,  you  could  hardly  go  alone ;  how  about  your  black-eyed 
friend,  the  young  Miss  I  saw  here  with  you  last  week  ?  Will  she 
not  be  going,  and  cannot  her  mother  chaperone  you,  too  ?" 

"  Maddy's  mother,  Mrs.  Clybourne,  you  mean  ?  Do  you 
think  she  would  object?" 

"  I  cannot  see  on  what  ground.  And  then  you  might  ask 
her  what  you  had  better  wear,  perhaps." 

"  Why,"  she  said,  looking  uneasy,  "  I  don't  know  her  well 
enough  for  that.  I  should  not  like  to  talk  about  such  things  to 
her." 

Dr.  Catherwood  repressed  a  smile  at  the  innocence  that 
feared  to  obtrude  the  subject  of  dress  on  a  lady  of  Mrs.  Cly- 
bourne's  established  worldliness  ;  he  was  sorry  she  ever  had  to 
learn  that  its  discussion  filled  the  nights  and  days  of  at  least 
one-half  of  her  own  sex. 

"  You  have  another  dress  like  this,"  he  said,  touching  the 
sleeve  that  lay  beside  him  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  muslin — yes — thinner  than  this,  low  neck. 
Why,  perhaps,  it  will  be  just  the  thing.  I  ought  to  wear  low 
neck,  ought  I  not  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  biting  his  lip  and  drumming  for  a 


EABLY   SUMMER.  47 

moment  on  the  table.      "  All  young  girls  do,  I  believe,  though 
the  dress  you  have  on  is  prettier,  to  my  fancy." 

"  Oh,  this  is  not  nice  enough.  You  will  see  how  much  bet 
ter  the  other  one  will  look  ;  and  you  like  light  green.  I  have 
thought  of  something  charming.  I  have  it  all.  It  will  be  very 
pretty  !  I  should  like  to  know  whether  Maddy  is  going  to  wear 
white.  Will  they  dance,  do  you  suppose,  Dr.  Catherwood  ? 
It  is  such  a  pity  that  I  don't  know  how.  I  wonder  if  any  one 
will  ask  me  ?" 

"  What  shall  you  say  if  any  one  should,  by  any  chance  ?" 
he  said,  looking  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"  Why,  that  I  was  very  sorry,  but  that  I  never  had  learned 
how,  I  suppose.  I  have  no  doubt  they  will  think  I  am  very 
stupid.  Do  you  know,  I  am  always  afraid  of  young  ladies  from 
the  city  ?  Even  Maddy,  I  believe,  is  very  soon  tired  of  talking 
to  me.  Perhaps  she  will  think  more  of  me  when  she  finds  I  am 
going  to  Mrs.  Sherman's.  We  shall  have  something  to  talk 
about  afterwards,  too  ;  and  the  trouble  always  has  been,  we  did 
not  have  anything  that  we  both  cared  about." 

"  Yes ;  and  the  more  you  have  in  common  with  Miss  Made 
line,  the  less  you  will  have  in  common  with  me ;  Miss  Made 
line's  gain  will  be  my  loss ;  do  you  see  that  ?" 

"  Why  no,  I  do  not  see  it.    I  don't  understand,  exactly." 
"  It  is  not  necessary  that  you  should.     I  believe  I  was  think 
ing  aloud  just  then.     By  the  way,  what  has  become  of  Julian  ? 
I  haven't  seen  him  all  the  afternoon." 

"Julian?  I  don't  know.  In  the  barn  with  Crescens,  I  believe," 
she  answered,  in  a  changed  voice,  subsiding  presently  in  silence. 
"  Well,  what  is  it  ?"  said  her  companion,  watching  her  quietly 
for  a  few  moments.  The  color  kad  left  her  cheek,  the  anima 
tion  was  gone  from  her  eyes  ;  she  sat  twisting  the  note  between 
her  fingers  with  a  thoughtful,  troubled  look.  "  Nothing,"  she 
said,  rising.  "  I  must  go  and  look  for  him  ;  I  believe  I  had  for 
gotten  all  about  him." 


48  EARLY    SUMMER. 

"  You  must  not  go,"  he  said,  "  till  you  have  told  me  why  you 
look  so  serious." 

"  Why — I  do  not  know,"  she  said.  "  Only,  on  the  whole,  I 
think  I  had  better  not  go  to  the  party.  Julian  might  be  ill ;  I 
have  never  been  away  from  him  a  whole  evening  yet.  I  should 
not  be  home  till  one  or  two  o'clock,  perhaps ;  and  Crescens  is 
good  for  nothing.  She  never  knows  what  to  do  in  one  of  his 
attacks.  She  is  a  perfect  stupid ;  I  never  should  forgive  my 
self,  you  see." 

"  That  is  all  very  foolish,"  he  said,  firmly.  "  The  sky  might 
fall,  you  know.  I  shall  not  think  much  of  your  common  sense 
if  you  speak  in  that  way  again.  Julian  is  perfectly  safe  with  his 
grandfather  and  a  house' full  of  servants — good  as  servants  ordi 
narily  are.  You  must  not  take  such  care  upon  you ;  it  is  an 
absurd  thing  at  your  age.  I  have  been  wanting  to  speak  to  you 
about  it,  and  this  has  brought  me  to  it.  You  take  too  much  the 
care  of  that  boy.  It  has  injured  your  elasticity  already.  You 
are  an  incongruous  mixture  of  child  and  woman.  There  is  no 
justice  in  your  being  sacrificed.  If  Crescens  is  not  capable  of 
taking  charge  of  him,  some  one  else  must  be  engaged  who  is,  and 
you  must  cease  to  feel  the  constant  care  of  him.  I  intend  to 
speak  to  Dr.  Upham  immediately  about  it." 

"  That  you  must  not  do,"  she  said,  earnestly.  "  I  shall  never 
forgive  you  if  you  say  anything  to  my  father.  Crescens  cannot 
be  sent  away ;  there  are  reasons  for  it,  and  I  cannot  speak  of 
them.  Understand,  Dr.  Catherwood,  you  will  make  me  very — 
unhappy — almost  angry,  if  you  speak  about  it.  I  choose  to 
take  care  of  Julian;  it  is  my  choice,  if  there  were  nothing 
more." 

"  Understand,  Miss  Upham,  I  shall  speak  about  it  if  you  give 
me  any  more  occasion.  Let  there  be  no  more  nonsense  about 
staying  away  from  Mrs.  Sherman's,  not  trusting  to  Crescens, 
sitting  up  all  night,  stooping  over  sewing  all  day,  on  account  of 
this  boy  Julian.  You  will  be  sent  away  to  boarding-school 


EARLY    SUMMER.  49 

some  fine  day ;  you  are  putting  on  the  airs  of  a  young  woman 
quite  too  soon  !" 

There  was  a  flash  and  flutter  among  the  branches  ;  Christine 
had  darted  away,  a  flush  of  indignation  on  her  cheek  ;  and  Dr. 
Catherwood,  watching  her  disappear  through  the  trees,  said  to 
himself  with  a  low  laugh  as  he  resumed  his  book  :  "  The  pretty 

little  innocent !" 

3 


60  IN  THE   NUJRSERY. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IN    THE    NURSERY. 

"  The  green 

And  growing  leaves  of  seventeen 

Are  round  her ; — and  half  hid,  half  seen, 

A  violet  flower ; 

Nursed  by  the  virtues  she  hath  heen 
From  childhood's  hour." 

HALLECK. 

DR.  CATHERWOOD  was  smoking  a  solitary  cigar  in  the  porch  of 
his  solitary  little  cottage  ;  the  mill-stream  which  ran  below  the 
garden  was  whispering  to  itself  in  the  twilight,  and  the  water 
rushing  over  the  dam  was  throwing  abroad  a  lulling  music.  It 
was  the  evening  of  the  entertainment  at  the  Hill ;  Dr.  Gather- 
wood  had  taken  dinner  at  the  Parsonage,  had  assured  himself 
of  the  success  of  his  plans  for  his  young  favorite,  and  was  at  that 
very  moment  thinking  of  her  innocent  excitement  with  a  smile 
of  pleasure.  He  had  negotiated  with  Mrs.  Clybourne  for  her 
protection,  had  made  her  happy  with  the  present  of  a  beautiful 
bouquet,  dictated  the  little  note  of  ceremony,  and  had  repre 
sented  to  her  father  that  he  must  encourage  her  in  every  way. 

He  almost  thought  he  would  go  to  the  Hill  himself  a  little 
while  and  see  how  she  enjoyed  it,  and  make  sure  also  that  the 
city-bred  young  ladies  did  not  throw  her  in  the  shade.  He 
appeared  to  debate  the  question  for  some  time ;  it  required  a 
good  deal  of  effort  to  bring  him  to  the  point  of  getting  up  and 
throwing  his  cigar  away,  for  he  was  rather  an  indolent  man,  it 
was  considered,  and  he  had  had  a  day  of  hard  riding  too  in  a 
dozen  different  ways  about  the  country.  He  leaned  for  a  few 


IN  THE   NUESERY.  51 

moments  against  the  vine-covered  pillar  of  the  porch  after  he 
had  thrown  away  his  cigar,  listened  to  the  rushing  of  the  water 
over  the  dam,  said  heigho !  with  a  sort  of  sigh  as  he  turned  into 
the  house  and  hunted  about  the  hall  to  find  a  light.  He  was 
just  entering  his  bedchamber,  an  apartment  on  the  ground-floor 
opposite  his  office,  when  the  little  gate  opened  and  some  one 
came  running  down  the  path. 

It  was  the  pretty  waitress  from  the  Parsonage. 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Ann  ?"  he  said,  meeting  her  at  the  door. 

"  Master  Julian  " — she  began,  and  then  stopped  quite  out  of 
oreath. 

"  He  is  ill  ?     Very  well ;  I  will  go  up  immediately." 

Dr.  Catherwood  evidently  was  not  an  indolent  man  when 
there  was  anything  to  be  done.  He  did  not  wait  for  his  horse, 
but  striking  into  the  lane  below  the  mill,  took  the  short  path  to 
the  Parsonage,  reaching  it  some  time  before  Ann  the  waitress  did. 

He  went  directly  in,  and  up  the  stairs  to  the  room  where 
Julian  slept.  It  was  a  large,  airy  room  that  opened  out  of 
Christine's,  which  had  always  been  "  the  nursery  "  when  there 
were  children  in  the  family  to  inhabit  it.  One  way  of  enter 
ing  it  was  from  the  hall,  behind  the  stairs ;  the  shortest  was 
through  Christine's  room.  Dr.  Catherwood  went  in  this  way, 
not  stopping  to  think  till  he  was  in  the  room,  where  a  couple 
of  tall  candles  were  burning  below  the  glass,  and  a  white  dress 
lay  upon  the  bed,  with  a  little  pair  of  slippers  by  them.  The 
bouquet  stood  on  the  window-sill ;  two  or  three  white  skirts 
were  flung  upon  a  chair. 

He  pushed  open  the  nursery  door.  Crescens,  with  her  usual 
dull  and  stolid  face,  was  carrying  away  a  bath-tub,  while  Julian 
was  lying  wrapped  in  blankets  on  Christine's  lap  beside  the 
bed.  Christine's  face  expressed  relief  as  she  caught  sight  of 
the  new-comer,  who  approached  without  any  undue  haste,  and 
taking  the  child's  wrist,  said  in  a  commonplace  tone  as  he  sat 
down  upon  the  bed  : 


52  IN   THE   NURSERY. 

"  Well,  Julian,  my  boy,  what's  the  matter  this  time  ?" 

Julian  fretted  and  turned  his  face  away,  but  did  not  attempt 
to  take  away  his  hand. 

"  You'd  better  let  me  put  him  on  the  bed,"  said  the  Doctor, 
rising  and  lifting  him  into  his  place.  "  You  have  given  him 
one  of  those  powders  ?" 

"  Two  ;  he  has  just  taken  the  second  one." 

"  That's  all  right.     When  did  it  come  on  ?" 

"  Half  an  hour  ago.  I  saw  before  tea  he  was  not  well,  he 
was  so  very  fretful ;  he  had  been  off  somewhere  with  Harry 
Gilmore.  I  had  begun  to  dress,  when  Crescens  called  me " 

"  It  is  a  trifle,"  said  the  Doctor,  looking  at  him  attentively. 
"  But  you  may  go  and  mix  that  other  powder  for  me,  in  case 
he  is  not  quieted." 

The  medicine  was  in  another  room,  and  Christine  was 
absent  several  minutes.  When  she  came  back,  the  Doctor 
said,  taking  out  his  watch  : 

"  Now  you  had  better  go  and  finish  dressing ;  you  will  not 
be  ready." 

She  started.  "  You  do  not  suppose  I  would  go  away  ?"  she 
said,  half  reproachfully,  half  incredulously. 

"  Of  course.  Why  not  ?  Julian  is  well  enough.  There  is 
not  the  least  danger  of  a  return  at  present.  He  needs  you 
no  more  to-night  than  always,  and  you  know  we  have  agreed 
he  does  not  need  you  always.  Remember  our  conversation  the 
other  evening  in  the  garden.  I  shall  certainly  have,  to  inter 
fere " 

"You  are  unreasonable,"  she  began,  with  flashing  eyes,  but 
her  companion  rising  and  taking  her  by  the  hand  led  her  to 
the  door  of  her  own  room. 

"Why  take  things  au  tragique,  Christine?"  he  said,  half 
closing  the  door  between  them  and  the  nursery.  "  You  know 
I  am  as  careful  of  the  boy  as  you  are.  If  he  needed  you,  I  should 
let  you  stay.  To  pacify  you,  I  will  stay  myself  and  watch  him." 


IN   THE   NURSERY.  53 

Christine  bit  her  lips  to  keep  back  the  tears,  and  resolutely 
said  she  would  not  leave  him. 

"Well,  then,  I  have  had  all  my  trouble  for  nothing,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  been  pleasing  myself  with  thinking  how  pretty 
you  were  going  to  look,  and  how  much  you  would  enjoy  your 
self." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  You  will  be  sorry  to-morrow.  You  will  think,  what  a 
silly  girl  I  was.  Come !  I  will  make  a  compromise  with  you. 
You  get  yourself  ready  and  go  with  Mrs.  Clybourne,  who 
comes  for  you  at  half-past  nine.  I  will  stay  by  Julian  till 
twelve,  and  then  come  for  you  myself;  for  I  suppose  Mrs.  Cly 
bourne  will  not  be  ready  to  come  away  before  two  or  three. 
That  will  make  you  absent  less  than  three  hours  in  all.  Does 
not  that  please  you  ?  You  are  ungrateful  if  it  does  not,  and 
there  can  be  no  possibility  of  pleasing  you." 

Christine  shook  her  head,  but  it  was  finally  agreed?  upon, 
and  Dr.  Catherwood  shut  the  door  and  went  back  to  Julian's 
bed,  learing  her  nothing  but  to  comply. 

At  half-past  nine  a  carriage  rolled  up  to  the  gate.  Chris 
tine  knocked  at  the  nursery  door  and  whispered  good-night 
faintly.  Dr.  Catherwood,  who  was  dropping  some  medicine 
into  a  glass,  only  answered  au  revoir  in  the  same  tone,  and  did 
not  open  it.  It  was  at  the  door  leading  into  the  hall  at  which.- 
the  had  knocked;  after  a  few  moments  there  came  another 
little  tap. 

"  Well «"  said  the  medical  attendant. 

"  Can't  I  come  in  ?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  Why,  no,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  going  towards  the  door 
but  not  opening  it.  "  Julian  is  lying  very  quietly,  and  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  rouse  him." 

There  was  a  little  pause  of  hesitation,  and  then  with  a  sigh 
she  moved  away.  He  motioned  Crescens  to  take  his  place  by 
the  bed. 


54  IN   THE    NCRSEKY. 

"  Ob,  I  see  what  it  is,"  he  said,  opening  the  door  and  following 
her  down  the  hall.  "You  want  to  know  whether  you  look 
pretty.  Come  under  the  light  and  let  me  see." 

"I  was  not  thinking  about  that  at  all,"  she  said,  coloring. 

Dr.  Catherwood  had  taken  her  hand  to  bring  her  to  where 
the  light  fell  upon  her,  but  as  they  reached  it  he  dropped  her 
hand  suddenly  and  drew  back. 

Was  he  disappointed  ?  She  was  lovely.  Her  dress  was 
beautifully  fine  and  white,  graceful  and  full  in  its  sweep  about 
her  slight,  well  rounded  figure  ;  her  hair  was  classically  simple  ; 
her  eyes  and  cheeks  bright  with  excitement ;  on  her  white 
arms  and  neck  she  wore  bracelets  and  a  necklace  of  carved 
malachite  in  Etruscan  setting. 

She  had  not  expected  him  to  admire  her,  but  she  felt  vague 
ly  pained  at  his  look  of  disappointment.  "He  had  forgotten 
that  my  hair  was  red,  perhaps,"  she  thought,  instinctively 
drawing  back  from  the  light.  Her  companion  noticed  her 
movement  and  tried  to  recover  his  usual  tone,  as  he  said : 

"  Your  dress  is  very  pretty.  Mrs.  Clybourne  will  not  have 
cause  to  be  ashamed  of  yon." 

But  the  tone  was  not  a  natural  one  ;  the  manner  was  a  mark 
of  something  she  did  not  understand,  and  Christine  went  down 
the  stairs  perplexed  and  heavy-hearted. 


A    SOUND    OF    REVELRY    BY    NIGHT. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    SOUND    OF    REVELRY    BY    NIGHT. 

"  Ne  in  her  speech,  ne  In  her  haviour 
Is  lightnesse  seene,  or  looser  vanitie  ; 
But  gracious  womanhood  and  gravitie, 
Above  the  reason  of  her  youthly  yeares." 

SPESSER. 

DR.  CATHERWOOD  walked  up  and  down  the  hall  with  a  steady, 
even  tread  for  a  long  time  after  Christine  left  him  and  went 
down  to  Mrs.  Clybourne.  He  heard,  or  perhaps  he  did  not  hear, 
the  gate  close  and  the  carriage  drive  away  ;  he  did- not  seem  to 
notice  Crescens  glowering  at  him  from  the  door  of- Julian's 
room  ;  it  was  only  a  fretful  cry  from  the  boy  himself  at  last 
that  roused  him,  and  with  a  slight  start,  throwing  off  his  revery, 
he  entered  the  room  and  went  up  to  the  bed  with  even  more 
than  his  usual  kindness  and  good-humor.  But  when  the  child 
slept  the  revery  returned  ;  he  sat  beside  him  like  a  statue,  with 
eyes  of  stone  fixed  upon  the  ground.  The  servant  had  to  speak 
twice  who  came  to  announce,  at  half-past  eleven,  that  his  horse 
was  at  the  door. 

The  moon  was  just  rising  as  he  drove  within  sight  of  the 
house  on  the  Hill ;  the  lights  from  it  were  all  shining  through 
the  trees,  and  the  music  came  out  from  all  its  open  doors  and 
windows.  Upon  the  east  piazza,  where  the  moon  was  already 
shining,  there  were  plenty  of  imprudent  dancers  walking ;  the 
western  one,  deeply  in  the  shade,  was  vacant.  Calling  a  ser 
vant  to  his  horse,  Dr.  Catherwood  went  up  these  steps,  glanced 
into  the  hall,  and  then,  through  an  open  window,  looked  into 
the  parlor.  It  was  a  perfect  "  rose-bud  garden  of  girls." 


56  A.   SOUND    OF   EEVELKY   BY   NIGHT. 

Dr.  Catherwood  said  to  himself:  "  There  are  at  least  twenty 
pretty  women  in  those  two  rooms,  but  the  minister's  little 
daughter  is  the  prettiest  of  all." 

The  minister's  little  daughter  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the 
heartache  of  two  hours  ago  ;  her  face  was  radiant  with  pleasure ; 
her  youth  and  light-heartedness  spoke  in  every  movement ;  she 
was  enjoying  a  rare,  beautiful,  brief  moment  that  could  not, 
from  its  nature,  come  again.  Pride,  envy,  and  ambition  had 
not  yet  crept  in ;  admiration  only  meant  kindness,  pleasure 
only  excited  an  unconscious  gratitude. 

A  great  many  eyes  were  on  her ;  Mrs.  Sherman,  who  had  no 
children  of  her  own,  and  was  always  trying  to  fill  the  void  by 
petting  other  people's,  was  praising  her  to  every  one,  and  bring 
ing  a  great  deal  of  notice  on  her.  The  city-bred  young  ladies 
were  looking  at  her  with  no  affection,  and  the  city-bred  young 
gentlemen  were  looking  at  her  with  a  great  deal.  She  was  not 
dancing,  for  that  excellent  reason  she  had  given  Dr.  Cather 
wood  ;  but  every  good-looking  man  in  the  room  had  asked  her 
to,  and  more  than  one  had  given  up  the  pleasure  of  that  exercise 
for  the  gratification  of  talking  to  her  and  doing  his  part  towards 
spoiling  the  innocence  that  charmed  him. 

Dr.  Catherwood  watched  her  for  some  time  with  a  curious, 
half-uneasy  look  ;  she  was  walking  up  and  down  the  long  apart 
ment  with  an  admirer  on  each  side ;  his  fine  bouquet  was  irre 
verently  handled  by  the  more  nervous  talker  of  the  two ;  one 
was  babbling  flattery,  the  other  was  looking  it ;  more  than  once 
in  their  walk  they  were  interrupted  by  some  new  introduction, 
petition  for  a  dance,  or  officious  offer  of  civility. 

"  Pshaw  !"  said  Dr.  Catherwood  half  aloud,  "  they'll  spoil  the 
child  by  all  this  nonsense  ;"  and  with  an  involuntary  impatience 
he  pulled  the  curtain  aside  and  stepped  in  upon  the  light  and 
pleasant  scene.  The  three  he  had  been  watching  with  so  little 
approbation  were  approaching  at  the  moment  that  he  made  his 
entree ;  Christine  dropped  the  arm  of  her  companion  and 


A   SOUND    OF    KEVELKT    BY   NIGHT.  57 

started  forward,  saying,  "  Oh,  there  is  Dr.  Catherwood !"  in  a 
nai've,  earnest  tone,  while  a  shade  came  over  her  face  with  the 
memory  of  the  sick  room  at  home  which  the  sight  of  him 
recalled. 

Dr.  Catherwood  bit  his  lip ;  it  seemed  a  little  hard,  with  all 
the  pains  he  had  taken  for  her  pleasure,  that  he  must  be  the 
skeleton  at  the  feast,  and  bring  the  first  shade  over  her  happy  face. 

"  Julian  is  no  worse  ?"  she  said,  hurriedly  and  anxiously. 

"  No  worse,"  he  said,  with  a  smile ;  "  I  came  to  tell  you  you 
had  better  stay  and  come  back  with  Mrs.  Clybourne." 

"  No,"  said  Christine,  with  a  visible  effort.  "  I  am  quite  ready 
to  go  now,  only  I  did  not  think  it  could  be  twelve  o'clock  1" 

"  Of  course  not,  Cinderella  ;  but  it  is,  and  after." 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Sherman  ?     I  want  to  say  good-night." 

"To  say  good-night!"  exclaimed  the  forgotten  holder  of  the 
fine  bouquet  in  a  tone  of  deep  reproach,  while  the  other  start 
ing  forward,  said,  "  Miss  Upham !  You  are  not  in  earnest ! 
Has  anything  occurred  ?'' 

He  looked  towards  Dr.  Catherwood,  gave  a  start,  and  ex 
claimed  in  a  tone  of  great  astonishment : 

"  Is  it  possible,  Ned— 

The  sentence  was  not  finished ;  a  quick  look  from  Dr.  Cather 
wood  checked  him ;  he  extended  his  hand  with  an  inquiring 
look.  "  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  meeting  the  Khan  of 
Tartary  here  as  you,"  he  said,  recovering  himself. 

"You  cannot  be  more  surprised  than  I  am,"  returned  the 
Doctor.  "  I  had  no  idea  you  were  in  this  country." 

"  We  are  old  fellow-travellers,  Miss  Upham,"  said  Colonel 
Steele,  in  an  explanatory  manner,  turning  to  Christine.  "  Two 
such  wandering  spirits,  we  ought  not  to  be  surprised  at  meeting 
anywhere  while  we  are  confined  to  the  same  planet." 

"  If  this  encounter  is  to  be  as  brief  as  our  last  one  was,  I 
must  improve  it,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood.  "  Miss  Upham  will 
excuse  us,  I  am  sure,  for  a  few  moments." 

3* 


58  A   SOUND    OP   KEVELRY   BY   NIGHT. 

• 

He  took  Colonel  Steele's  arm,  and  they  walked  half  a  dozen 
times  up  and  down  the  hall,  talking  in  low  voices ;  then  came 
back  to  the  window  where  Christine  stood  waiting  for  them, 
their  places  well  supplied  by  some  fresh  flatterers. 

"  I  am  quite  ready  to  go,"  she  said,  the  moment  they  ap 
proached.  She  was  quite  sobered,  quite  unradiant.  She  was 
not  hearing  half  that  her  admirers  said.  "  I  assure  you  it  is 
unnecessary,"  he  returned,  looking  at  her  critically. 

"  I  want  to  go,"  she  said,  simply. 

"Principally  because  you  wish  to  stay,  I  suppose,"  he 
answered. 

"  Oughtn't  I  to  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Clybourne  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Why,  yes,  if  you  mean  to  go  with  me." 

"  Then  won't  you  take  me  to  her  ?" 

The  manner  in  which  the  young  belle  left  her  admirers  was 
quite  a  study ;  they  felt  themselves  thrown  to  an  immeasurable 
distance ;  even  the  most  assured  of  them  lacked  the  confidence 
to  follow  her  and  remonstrate  with  her  on  her  going.  They 
felt  the  chill  of  her  preoccupied,  simple  manner  more  than  any 
haughtiness. 

Mrs.  Clybourne  smiled  good-humoredly  when  she  told  her 
why  she  went;  she  was  a  woman  of  the  world  from  her  youth, 
and  she  evidently  thought  Dr.  Catherwood  very  willing  to  get 
the  young  d&butartte  away  from  her  admirers. 

Maddy  said,  "  What !  going  now  ?"  from  over  her  partner's 
shoulder  as  she  was  whirled  past  her  down  the  room ;  while 
Mrs.  Sherman  left  a  group  of  dowagers  to  remonstrate  openly 
against  her  leaving. 

Mrs.  Sherman  was  the  dread  of  all  timid  and  easily  embar 
rassed  people ;  she  had  not  much  tact,  but  a  very  strong  will, 
and  a  great  desire  that  everybody  should  be  pleased  and  enter 
tained  exactly  as  she  wanted  them  to  be.  She  spent  her  life  in 
trying  to  amuse  herself,  and  she  seized  greedily  upon  any  one 
that  promised  her  the  least  excitement.  She  always  had  some 


A   SOUND   OF   REVELEY   BY   NIGHT.  5y 

one  to  protect  and  patronize,  somebody  about  her  to  make  her 
feel  as  if  she  were  doing  good — an  artist  with  long  hair,  a  poet, 
or  an  unremunerated  author  of  poor  prose.  She  always  had 
one  or  more  young  girls  staying  with  her,  which  made  her 
house  attractive  ;  and  if  the  young  girls  did  not  mind  being 
praised,  petted,  and  patronized  in  the  most  public  manner — 
schemed  about,  made  conspicuous,  and  finally  married  off  to 
some  of  her  proteges,  it  was  all  very  well. 

Mrs.  Clybourne  being  a  widow,  and  living  on  a  stated  in 
come,  the  statement  of  which  was  very  brief,  was  prepared  to 
welcome  very  gladly  Mrs.  Sherman's  protection  and  favor  for 
Madeline,  now  just  ready  for  society.  Madeline,  consequently, 
had  been  sent  up  to  the  Hill  continually  on  amiable  errands 
since  Mrs.  Sherman  had  returned,  and  had  succeeded  in  making 
herself  quite  a  favorite  with  her.  Therefore  it  was  with  very 
great  regret  she  saw  the  impression  that  the  little  girl  from  the 
Parsonage  was  making.  Mrs.  Sherman  certainly  was  taking 
her  up  violently ;  everything  conspired  to  make  her  enthusiasti 
cally  eprise.  She  had  not  seen  anything  so  fresh  and  innocent 
in  years  she  declared ;  she  always  had  doated  on  hair  of  just 
that  shade ;  she  liked  nothing  so  much  as  a  girl  without  a 
mother;  and  she  was,  at  just  that  period,  intemperately  high- 
church.  Dr.  Upham  had  baptized  her,  or  married  her,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort ;  he  was  associated  with  the  happiest  days  of 
her  life ;  she  should  lose  no  time  in  renewing  her  old  friendship 
for  him.  Besides,  Christine  was  an  heiress,  she  soon  learned ; 
and  though  that  took  a  little  from  the  merit  of  the  act,  it  would 
make  bringing  her  out  a  much  more  interesting  task.  She 
would  save  the  girl  from  being  sacrificed  to  some  clownish  fel 
low,  and  would  give  her  a  thousand  advantages  which  she  could 
not  otherwise  have  hoped  for.  "  Ma  petite  violette  /"  she  ex 
claimed  from  underneath  her  muslin  roses ;  "  tu.  ne  sera  pas 
toujours  caches  dans  la  campagne  /" 

Dr.  Catherwood  saw  the  situation  instantly  ;  he  felt  he  should 


60  A   SOUND   OF   KEVELRY    BY   NIGHT. 

have  done  better  to  have  dictated  "  Miss  Upham  regrets  ex 
tremely,"  when  this  mighty  huntress's  invitation  came.  There 
was  an  end  of  pristine  simplicity  and  content  in  the  old  ways  at 
the  Parsonage.  "Just  as  all  other  women  are,"  insipid  beyond 
expression,'  when  she  learned  all  that  Madeline  Clybourne  and 
the  rest  could  teach  her. 

Dr.  Catherwood  was  almost  brusque  when  he  replied  to  Mrs. 
Sherman's  protests  about  taking  Christine  away ;  he  thought  it 
in  very  bad  taste  on  her  part  to  say  so  much  about  it,  and  won 
dered  that  Christine  could  endure  so  many  caresses  and  such 
open  adulation  from  her. 

"  I  shall  certainly  come  to-morrow  morning,  dear,  and  see  if 
your  father  really  sent  this  hard-hearted  gentleman  after  you.  I 
can't  see  how  he  could  have  been  so  cruel !  " 

When  they  were  out  in  the  moonlight  fairly  on  their  way 
home,  Dr.  Catherwood  recovered  his  good  temper,  or  at  least 
the  appearance  of  it ;  but  Christine  was  very  silent,  absorbed  in 
her  own  thoughts. 

"  So  you  have  had  a  pleasant  evening  ?  "  he  said  by  and  by, 
stooping  forward  to  pull  her  white  dress  from  the  wheel.  "  Did 
any  one  ask  you  to  dance  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  ;  a  great  many." 

"  Why  of  course  ?    You  thought  they  might  not,  you  know." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Sherman  told  them  to,  I  believe.  I  never  met 
any  one  exactly  like  Mrs.  Sherman." 

"No?  Why,  I  know  a  dozen  people  like  her.  You  propose 
to  be  very  fond  of  her,  no  doubt." 

"  No,  I  had  not  thought  of  it." 

"  Still,  you  like  her,  I  am  sure." 

"  She's  extremely  kind  to  me,"  said  Christine,  relapsing  into 
silence. 

"  Then  there's  my  friend  Colonel  Steele  ;  what  did  you  think 
of  him  ? "  resumed  her  companion,  after  a  pause. 

"  Oh,  he  was  very  pleasant,"  she  answered,  brightening.     "  I 


A    SOUND    OF    KEVELRY    BY    NIGHT.  61 

think  I  liked  him  better  than  any  one ;  though,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  believe  I  liked  them  all.  I  never  had  so  much  pleasure 
in  my  life  before.  I  wish  I  could  go  to  a  party  every  night. 
The  music,  Dr.  Catherwood,  was  it  not  delightful  ?  I  would 
give  anything  to  dance.  And  the  dresses  were  so  pretty  ! 
Why,  I  could  hardly  speak  when  I  first  came  down  into  the 
parlors,  everything  was  so  new  and  strange.  Don't  you  think 
that  is  a  beautiful  house  ?  It  is  the  finest  one  I  ever  saw  ;  the 
piazza  is  so  broad.  Oh,  how  little  the  one  at  home  seems  after 
it !  I  wonder  Mrs.  Sherman  can  go  away  to  live.  By  the  way, 
Mrs.  Sherman  says  she  used  to  know  my  mother,  and — and — 
Helena  my  sister." 

"  Ah ! " 

"  She  saw  Helena  once,  at  some  great  ball  in  Paris,  the 
winter  she  was  married.  She  says  she  was  so  beautiful,  every 
one  was  talking  of  her.  And  what  was  very  strange,  she  wore 
white,  and  these  same  ornaments  I  have  on  to-night.  Mrs. 
Sherman  says  they  were  so  striking  she  never  had  forgotten 
them.  Helena  gave  them  to  me  when  she  first  came  home; 
I  think  she  did  not  like  them.  She  packed  all  her  other  jew 
elry  away  for  Julian.  I  would  give  anything  to  have  seen  her 
when  she  was  beautiful.  We  have  no  picture  of  her  any 
where.  It  is  so  dreadful  to  die  and  leave  no  shadow,  no  mate 
rial  souvenir  of  the  body  we  inhabited  ;  it  is  very  treacherous  to 
trust  only  to  the  memories  of  those  who  have  once  loved  us — 
people  will  forget — it  is  such  a  short  time  to  live " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  It  was  these  thoughts  that  had 
sobered  the  young  girl  so  suddenly ;  she  hardly  realized  that 
she  had  given  them  utterance,  or  mentioned  her  sister's  name 
for  the  first  time  to  her  companion. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  like  her,  they  say  ;  not  a  look  of  her 
about  my  face,  nor  Julian's,  either.  It  is  as  if  she  were  gone  for 
ever ;  he  has  almost  forgotten  her,  I  sometimes  think ;  and  I 
find  myself  forgetting,  though  I  try  so  hard  to  keep  her  in  my 


62  A    SOUND    OF    EEVELltY   BY   NIGHT. 

mind.  My  father  is  the  only  one  that  has  her  clear  and  con 
stant  picture  in  his  thoughts.  Don't  you  think  him  changed 
and  older  lately  ?  But  I  forgot ;  you  never  knew  him  before 
she  died." 

"I  do  not  think  him  changed  since  I  came  here  to  live. 
What  makes  you  fear  he  is  ?" 

"  Nothing ;  I  had  not  thought  of  it ;  but  Mrs.  Sherman  says 
she  passed  him  the  other  day  upon  the  road,  and  never  would 
have  known  him  if  Madeline  had  not  told  her.  She  had  heard 
all  about  Helena,  and  she  says  so  much  trouble  has  almost 
killed  him,  she  is  sure.  She  asked  me  all  about — all  about 
Julian  and  our  family  matters,  exactly  as  if  she  had  known  me 
all  her  life.  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  have  seen  so  few  strangers, 
but  it  made  me  very  uncomfortable.  I  shall  get  used  to  it, 
however,  I  suppose." 

"  Let  me  advise  you  never  to  feel  comfortable  in  the  discus 
sion  of  family  matters  with  a  stranger.  Mrs.  Sherman  is  a 
stranger  to  you ;  her  catechism  was  ill  bred.  I  do  not  want  to 
know  that  you  ever  are  used  to  such  things,  Christine.  I  do 
not  want  you  to  be  intimate  with  Mrs.  Sherman.  I  should  be 
sorry  that  Madeline  even  were  your  confidant.  Promise  me  to 
tell  nothing  to  her,  and  to  Mrs.  Sherman,  and  to  the  hundred 
others  who  may  soon  surround  you,  but  what  you  might  tell 
out  in  the  hearing  of  the  world.  Nothing  of  your  home  rela 
tions,  nothing  of  your  feelings,  nothing  of  your  heart,  Christine. 
Can't  you  make  me  your  friend,  as  far  as  such  a  friend  is  neces 
sary?  There  is  no  one  who  cares  more  for  your  happiness  than 
I  do,  no  one  who  is  more  interested  in  all  the  trifles  that  con 
cern  you  ;  and  if  you  will  be  contented  with  my  sympathy,  and 
accept  sometimes  of  my  advice,  it  may  save  you  from  a  good 
deal  of  trouble  and  regret  for  indiscretions." 

"  It  is  not  much  of  a  compliment  to  say  I  like  you  better 
than  I  like  them ;  but  all  the  idea  I  have  of  a  friend  comes  from 
you,  and  I  never  shall  talk  to  any  one  but  you.  Why  should 


A   SOUND   OF   EEVELBY   BY   NIGHT.  63 

it  ever  be  different  ?  There  are  three  people  that  I  never  want 
to  be  away  from,  you  and  my  father  and  Julian.  The  others 
are  all  very  well,  but  I  can  do  without  them." 

There  was  a  little  silence  as  they  drove  under  the  shade  of 
the  elm-trees  and  turned  into  the  broad  street  on  which  the 
church  and  the  Parsonage  were  built. 

"  I  shall  not  forget,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  as  he  took  her 
hand  to  lift  her  to  the  ground  at  the  Parsonage  gate. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Christine.     "  So  good-night." 


64  THE    CLYBOURNES. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    CLYBOURNES. 

"  Proud  Maisie  la  in  the  wood 

Walking  so  early ; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush 
Singing  so  rarely. 

"  Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 
When  shall  I  marry  me  ?" 

SCOTT. 

"  JULIAN  is  much  better  this  morning,"  said  Christine,  rising 
to  meet  Dr.  Catherwood  as  he  came  in. 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it,"  he  returned,  professionally,  standing 
still  at  the  parlor  door  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  having 
made  his  salutations  to  the  party  in  the  parlor.  "  I  suppose  I 
may  go  up  ?" 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Christine,  sitting  down. 

She  was  environed  by  more  visitors  than  she  had  ever  had  to 
entertain  in  her  life  before  at  one  time.  There  was  Mrs.  Sher 
man,  talking  with  the  peculiar  enthusiasm  of  a  pious  woman  of 
fashion  to  the  old  Rector  ;  Madeline  Clybourne,  playing  with 
the  feather  of  her  round  hat  and  sparkling  with  wit  and  vivacity  ; 
Colonel  Steele,  looking  very  handsome  and  using  his  fine  eyes 
dangerously ;  and  the  chattering  bouquet-holder  of  last  night, 
who  named  himself  Leslie,  and  who  was  by  trade  an  author. 
Both  these  gentlemen  were  staying  at  the  Hill,  and  had  come 
with  Mrs.  Sherman  and  Madeline  in  the  fine  open  carriage 
which  now  stood  at  the  door. 

Christine  looked  rather  pale,  and  not  nearly  so  pretty  as  she 
had  looked  the  night  before ;  but  neither  of  the  gentlemen  seem- 


THE   CLYBOTTENES.  65 

ed  disillusionized.     "  All  is  fine  that  is  fit."     The  droop  of  the 
lily  is  one  of  its  charms. 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  languor  or  weariness  about  Made 
line  ;  her  eyes  were  merry,  her  cheeks  glowed  with  color.  Of 
course  she  knew  that  she  looked  well ;  she  had  put  on  her  white 
picquet  dress  that  morning,  knowing  that  she  looked  her  very 
best  in  it,  and  had  put  her  coral  earrings  in,  with  the  strong 
conviction  that  the  Hill  carriage  would  drive  up  to  the  gate 
some  time  in  the  course  of  the  morning. 

She  had  heard  so  much  of  beauty  all  her  life,  she  felt  a  thrill 
of  satisfaction  every  time  she  looked  into  the  glass ;  the  strong 
rush  of  youthful  happiness  was  carrying  away  with  it  the 
unlovely  vice  of  vanity  that  bubbled  up  occasionally  into  sight ; 
rather  a  pretty  sparkle  now,  but  a  deadly  taint,  "  a  woe  for 
future  years,"  when  the  current  should  be  slower  and  the 
fountain  low. 

Madeline  was  not  a  foolish  child  ;  she  had  great  talent,  great 
beauty,  and  a  soul  fit  for  very  noble  things.  Neither  was  Ma 
deline's  mother  a  foolish  woman,  as  the  world  counts  foolishness ; 
she  had  great  energy,  wonderful  administrative  ability,  strong 
affection  for  her  children,  and  very  correct  ideas  of  her  duty  on 
most  questions.  She  was  almost  a  religious  woman  ;  she  was 
not  far  from  being  what  she  ought  to  be.  She  had  brought 
up  her  children  with  the  greatest  care ;  she  had  not  spared 
herself,  had  worked  day  and  night  to  make  up  the  stinginess 
of  fate  to  them,  and  give  them  the  advantages  they  would  have 
had  if  their  father  had  lived  and  prospered.  A  miracle  of 
cleverness  she  had  appeared  to  those  who  knew  the  slenderness 
of  her  resources ;  her  boy  had  had  the  best  education  that  the 
country  could  afford  him ;  her  eldest  girl  had  been  brought 
before  the  world  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets  that  might  have 
heralded  the  entrance  of  a  beauty  and  an  heiress. 

How  the  Clybournes  kept  such  a  brave  front  to  the  world, 
however,  was  a  wonder  only  to  those  who  did  not  understand 


66  THE   CLYBOURNES. 

the  oneness  of  purpose,  the  strong  ambition  of  the  mother. 
Indeed,  she  had  little  assistance  from  those  for  whom  she 
•worked.  The  son  proved  a  lazy,  unstable  fellow,  as  most  men 
prove  who  are  born  with  thin  purses  and  educated  as  if  they 
were  entitled  to  stout  ones.  He  was  not  a  credit  to  his  mo 
ther,  nor  any  ornament  to  society.  He  rarely  went  into  any 
dashing  dissipation,  but  was  always  behindhand  in  money  mat 
ters,  and  terribly  discontented  with  his  lot,  so  that  poor  Mrs. 
Clybourne  was  continually  finessing  to  keep  him  out  of  debt 
and  to  get  him  some  employment  which  did  not  necessitate 
manual  or  mental  labor,  to  both  of  which  he  had  a  fixed  dis 
taste.  He  had  had  several  secretary-  and  aitacAe-ships,  which 
he  would  have  disgraced  if  anything  had  been  required  of  him  ; 
and  was  now  filling  a  starving  Consulate  in  Italy,  where  his 
mother  flattered  herself  he  was  safe  at  least  for  two  or  three 
years  to  come. 

And  as  Mrs.  Clybourne's  ambition  had  been  disappointed  in 
the  advancement  of  her  son,  so  had  it  been  thwarted  in  the 
marriage  of  her  eldest  girl.  The  eldest  Miss  Clybourne  had 
proved  neither  a  beauty  nor  a  genius,  and  all  her  mother's 
clever  management  failed  to  make  her  anything  but  common 
place.  She  was  always  well  dressed ;  there  were  desperate 
pinchings  at  home  to  let  her  appear  properly  abroad ;  but  season 
after  season  in  town  passed  by,  summer  after  summer  spent  at 
desirable  places  of  resort,  and  she  was  still  unprovided  for.  It 
seemed  incredible  that  such  well  laid  plans  should  fail,  such 
excellent  tact  go  unrewarded,  when  so  many  weaker  people 
succeeded  every  day ;  but,  indeed,  Susie  Clybourne  was  a  heavy 
boat  to  steer,  a  Dutch  lugger  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and 
her  pilot  was  unable  to  bring  her  into  port  by  any  of  the  rules 
of  modern  navigation. 

At  last,  just  trembling  on  the  verge  of  twenty-seven,  a  happy 
chance  averted  the  disgrace  impending — a  happy  chance, 
aided  by  her  mother's  faithful  and  ingenious  endeavors. 


THE    CLYBOUBNES.  67 

A  dull  old  widower  came  home  from  South  America  with  a 
respectable  little  fortune,  and  was  soon  made  to  see  he  needed 
a  new  wife.  Susie  Clybourne  was  put  in  his  way,  and  he  mar 
ried  her.  But  he  was  rather  a  poor  bargain,  even  for  her ;  he 
was  almost  a  fool,  and  had  no  talent  for  taking  care  of  himself 
or  his  money,  much  less  of  his  wife  and  children  ;  he  lost  half 
his  property  before  he  had  been  married  a  year,  and  would 
probably  have  lost  the  other  half  before  they  had  been  married 
two,  if  his  mother-in-law  had  not  interposed  and  looked  into 
his  affairs  herself.  So  that  the  poor  lady  had  now  not  only 
her  son  but  her  son-in-law  and  his  stupid  wife  and  increasing 
babies  on  her  mind ;  and  no  one  could  deny  she  carried  weight 
in  life. 

It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  upon  Madeline,  the  youngest  of 
the  three,  her  hopes  should  have  been  centred.  She  felt  she 
had  a  trump  now  in  her  hand,  which  was  to  repay  her  for 
her  long-continued  run  of  ill-success.  Madeline  was  a  beauty, 
and  clever  enough  to  have  shone  if  she  had  not  been  a 
beauty ;  and  the  prudent  mother  gave  her  nights  and  days  to 
the  study  of  plans  for  her  campaign. 

Her  campaign  was  just  opening;  everthing  looked  favorable. 
To  be  sure,  she  was  rather  younger  than  Mrs.  Clybourne's 
good  sense  would  have  recommended,  but  then  there  were 
reasons  to  set  over  against  that.  Susie's  waning  had  taught 
her  the  shortness  and  high  price  of  youth  ;  and  as  for  Ma 
deline's  character,  it  was  more  formed  now  than  Susie's  had 
been  at  twenty -five.  Passion,  imprudence;  well,  she  meant 
never  to  have  her  out  of  her  own  sight;  if  she  were  watch 
ful,  there  would  be  no  trouble  from  those  dangerous  things 
— the  feelings.  Seventeen  was  early  to  confront  the  world, 
but  Madeline  was  clever  beyond  her  years,  and  would  not  fail 
to  fight  the  battle  well. 

She  had  known,  ever  since  she  came  to  be  capable  of 
thinking  for  herself,  what  she  was  intended  to  accomplish ; 


68  THE   CLYBOUKN'ES. 

what  was  expected  of  her  by  her  mother  and  by  all  who 
were  interested  in  her.  She  was  to  do  with  her  good  looks 
what  her  brother  had  failed  to  do  with  his  indifferent  brains, 
and  what  her  sister  had  not  had  the  force  to  do — and  that 
was,  to  better,  in  some  decided  way,  the  fortunes  of  the 
family.  She  was  to  marry,  that  was  understood ;  tacitly,  of 
course ;  for  refinement  and  good  taste  ruled  at  home,  and  such 
plans  are  not  to  be  talked  about.  She  looked  to  no  other 
future,  prepared  herself  for  no  other  contingency.  She  had 
no  idea  of  being  mercenary,  of  marrying  other  than  "  as  her 
heart  inclined  ;"  she  was  full  of  enthusiasm  and  of  innocence  ; 
she  dreamed  the  happiest  dreams,  wherein  walked  the  master 
of  her  heart,  crowning  her  days  with  the  prosperity  and 
plenty  that  her  childhood  had  felt  the  absence  of.  Young 
heiresses  dream  of  cottages,  young  cottagers  of  palaces.  Ma 
deline  had  felt  the  pinching  of  poverty  at  times  too  sharply 
to  be  enamored  of  its  romantic  features.  She  basked  in 
golden  dreams,  no  less  pure  and  innocent  than  other  chil 
dren's  are,  for  being  golden.  That  lord  of  her  fancy  whom 
any  day  might  bring,  was  to  give  her  everything  she  had 
not — everything  that  made  life  warm  and  beautiful ;  he  was 
to  satisfy  her  soul,  to  gratify  her  ambition,  to  give  her  the 
thousand  pleasures  she  had  so  long  sighed  to  have. 

She  had  been  pretty  well  educated — as  well  as  her  mother 
could  afford;  and  had  been  brought  up  in  many  ways  sen 
sibly  and  thriftily.  Mrs.  Clybournc's  cottage  was  a  model 
of  taste  and  refinement^  and  the  family  ways  were  regular 
and  well  arranged.  Madeline  had  always  had  her  household 
duties,  and  had  performed  them  wonderfully  well  till  the 
opening  of  the  campaign.  Then  her  mother  had  relaxed  in 
her  requirements  and  had  absolved  her  from  many  of  her 
duties,  though  offering  no  reason  for  the  change.  But  Ma 
deline  knew  what  it  meant ;  she  was  ready  for  the  market  now, 
and  she  must  be  kept  in  the  finest  possible  condition. 


THE   CLYBOUKNES.  69 

These  were  ugly  words,  and  she  did  not  say  them  even 
to  herself.  She  respected  her  mother,  and  had  been  brought 
up  to  believe  that  everything  she  did  was  right ;  she  never 
dreamed  of  doubting  that  this  was  right,  and  exactly  "  as  every 
body"  did.  For  at  seventeen  it  is  hard  to  realize  that  "  every 
body"  can  be  in  the  wrong. 

Mrs.  Sherman's  return  to  her  country  place  was  a  very 
happy  event  to  Mrs.  Clybourne.  She  foresaw  great  advantages 
to  Madeline  if  her  favor  could  be  secured ;  and  though  she 
wished  very  well  to  the  little  girl  at  the  Parsonage,  she  was 
disturbed  by  the  good  impression  she  had  seemed  to  make  on 
the  evening  of  her  debut  at  the  Hill,  and  she  wished,  a  little 
selfishly,  that  she  could  have  been  kept  in  the  background  for 
a  year  or  two  at  least. 

Of  Dr.  Catherwood  she  was  somewhat  distrustful,  too ;  she 
admired  him  a  good  deal,  as  everybody  else  did,  but  dreaded 
having  Madeline  see  too  much  of  him.  Young  girls,  she 
knew,  were  very  apt  to  fancy  men  of  just  his  age  and  manner; 
and  in  a  country  town  like  that,  where  people  were  so  much 
thrown  upon  each  other  for  amusement,  she  foresaw  great  dan 
ger  to  her  daughter's  peace  of  mind  if  he  should  be  at  all 
attracted  by  her,  as  he  evidently  was  not  a  marrying  man,  or 
at  least  the  kind  of  a  marrying  man  that  it  would  do  for 
Madeline  to  think  about  at  all. 

Then  this  Colonel  Steele  whom  Mrs.  Sherman  had  at  pre 
sent  at  the  Hill,  it  would  be  necessary  to  warn  Madeline 
against  him,  for  he  was  in  pursuit  of  a  fortune  for  himself,  and 
could  not  think  of  marrying  her,  however  much  he  might 
admire  her.  The  other  one,  the  holder  of  Christine's  bouquet, 
was  nothing  but  a  miserable  literary  creature  ;  Madeline  had 
too  much  good  sense  to  listen  at  all  to  him  ;  but  she  was  only 
seventeen,  and  the  man  had  such  a  manner  of  devotion  with 
every  woman  whom  he  met. 

Mrs.  Clybourne's  troubles  had  begun,  she  thought  with  a 


70  THE   CLYBOUKXES. 

sigh,  as  she  stole  in.  to  look  at  her  pretty  daughter  as  she  slept. 
She  wished  sincerely  she  were  in  pantalettes  and  short  frocks 
still,  and  that  all  this  wear  and  tear  of  mind  had  not  come 
upon  her.  It  was  a  heavy  cross ;  really  her  path  in  life,  she 
thought,  had  been  marked  out  by  a  very  rigid  hand. 

But  she  was  still  resolved  to  sacrifice  herself  to  her  duty, 
come  what  might ;  she  had  as  magnificent  a  feeling  of  its 
sacredness  as  if  her  labor  had  been  to  provide  for  eternity 
instead  of  this  short  and  uncertain  state. 


CHRISTINE'S  BENEFACTRESS.  71 


CHAPTER  X. 

CHRISTINE'S  BENEFACTRESS. 

"  She  bears  a  purse  ;  she  Is  a  region  hi  Guiana,  all  gold  and  bounty." 

MEBRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 

DR.  CATHERWOOD  went  into  the  parlor  when  he  came  down 
from  Julian's  room  ;  he  took  a  place  beside  Madeline  and  made 
himself  very  fascinating  to  her.  Mrs.  Sherman  began  imme 
diately  to  flagellate  him ;  now,  had  Dr.  Upham  sent  him  to 
bring  away  Christine  at  twelve  lasl  night  ? 

No,  Dr.  Upham  said  in  a  bewildered  way,  he  did  not  remem 
ber  having  done  it ;  no,  he  thought  not. 

There  !  and  there  was  a  great  clamor,  and  Dr.  Catherwood 
found  himself  au  bout  de  sa  patience  •  and  then  Mrs.  Sherman 
wanted  to  know,  apropos,  why  Colonel  Steele  had  been  so 
negligent  as  not  to  tell  her  that  he  knew  Dr.  Catherwood. 
They  were  old  friends,  she  heard  through  Leslie,  and  yet, 
though  he  had  been  three  days  at  the  Hill,  and  had  heard  her 
speak  of  Dr.  Catherwood  twenty  times,  he  had  not  said  he 
knew  him.  She  did  not  think  he  deserved  to  have  him  asked 
to  dinner,  but  nevertheless  she  would  do  it.  How  was  it, 
would  he  come  to-day  ? 

Dr.  Catherwood  was  not  many  minutes  in  showing  her  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  do  himself  that  pleasure,  having  an 
appointment  some  ten  miles  distant  for  the  very  hour  she 
dined. 

Christine  felt  a  conviction  that  he  would  have  had  an 
appointment  at  a  great  distance  for  any  hour  she  could  have 
named. 


72  CHEISTINE'S  BENEFACTRESS. 

Well,  then,  tant  pis  pour  lui ;  lie  would  miss  the  society  of 

the  two  prettiest  girls  in  ,  for  she  was  going  to  take 

Madeline  and  Christine  home  with  her,  bonyre  malyre,  and 
Messrs.  Steele  and  Leslie  might  congratulate  themselves  that 
they  would  have  no  rival. 

Christine  looked  frightened  and  pleaded  Julian,  but  her  father 
said,  "  Why  not,  my  dear  ?"  and  left  her  no  resource  but  Dr. 
Catherwood,  who  was  not  in  the  mood  to  help  her.  She 
looked  at  him,  and  he  looked  away  and  talked  to  Madeline. 
Her  father  reiterated  his  advice,  Mrs.  Sherman  was  vehement, 
the  gentlemen  were  urgent,  and  poor  Christine  went  miserably 
up-stairs  to  dress  herself. 

When  she  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Sherman  said  to  the  Rector  in 
a  tone  of  much  apparent  feeling :  "  Lovely  young  creature ! 
Doctor,  do  you  not  feel  weighed  down  with  the  responsibility 
of  providing  for  her  suitably  ?" 

Dr.  Upham  raised  his  eyes  in  thoughtful  surprise,  and  said  : 
"  How,  Madam  ?" 

He  had  never  doubted  he  was  providing  for  her  suitably,  and 
this  was  something  of  a  shock  to  him. 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Sherman,  hesitatingly,  "  I  mean  as  regards 
her  future.  Just  at  her  age,  you  know,  one  must  look  forward, 
one  must  be  cautious.  Young  girls  make  such  rash  choices  ;  it 
is  so  necessary  that  they  should  be  guided.  Marriage,  you  see, 
is  such  a  lasting  good  or  evil  to  them."  « 

The  bewilderment  went  from  Dr.  Upham's  face,  and  a  deep 
sadness  settled  on  it ;  his  eyes  sought  the  ground,  and  for  some 
moments  he  did  not  speak. 

"  Christine  is  a  mere  child,"  he  said,  at  length.  "  I  have  never 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  her  marrying  for  years  to  come ; 
I  do  not  think  I  need  be  disturbed  about  it  yet ;  she  seems 
almost  a  baby  to  me  now." 

"  Ah  !  seventeen  is  not  a  baby,  my  dear  sir.  Seventeen  is  a 
woman  ;  seventeen  falls  in  love  and  marries.  Why,  poor  Helena 


CHRISTINE'S  BENEFACTRESS.  73 

was  not  so  old,  you  know — not  so  old  by  a  year,  when  she  threw 
herself  away  so  sadly." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause ;  if  the  speaker  had  been  of  or 
dinary  make,  she  could  not  have  resumed  in  the  face  of  the 
father's  pained  expression.  Madeline  and  Dr.  Catherwood  had 
ceased  talking  and  were  listening  half  involuntarily,  as  she  went 
on  in  an  earnest  tone,  bent  simply  on  carrying  through  some 
favorite  plan  : 

"  We  cannot  blame  poor  Helena  for  her  choice,  nor  you,  my 
dear  sir,  for  not  preventing  such  a  sacrifice  ;  you  could  not,  no 
father  can,  no  man  indeed.  It  needs  a  mother's  care,  a  woman's 
tact,  to  guide  and  influence,  not  openly  control,  a  young  girl's 
fancies ;  and  pardon  me,  I  long  to  see  our  dear  Christine  safe 
out  of  the  reach  of  such  ruin  as  her  elder  sister's.  I  love  the 
child  already.  She  is  a  gem  ;  she  must  shine,  my  dear  sir  ;  you 
cannot  hide  her.  Do  not  try  to,  only  be  cautious  and  act  ad 
visedly.  She  must  see  the  world  ;  let  her  see  it  with  a  friend 
beside  her  experienced  and  faithful ;  let  her  have  a  woman's 
care  in  those  temptations  and  trials  of  the  heart  that  none  but 
women  know.  Think  what  it  would  have  been  to  your  poor 
lost  Helena  to  have  had  such  guidance  and  such  companion 
ship." 

The  clergyman  pressed  his  hand  hastily  before  his  eyes  as  if 
it  gave  him  too  much  pain  to  listen,  and  yet  as  if  he  dared  not 
bid  her  to  desist.  She  began  to  apprehend  that  she  had  gone 
as  far  as  it  was  decorous  to  go,  and  she  hastily  concluded : 

"  You  know,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  too  blunt  and  honest  to  go 
smoothly  in  the  world.  I  am  not  a  diplomat ;  I  speak  from  my 
heart.  I  am  all  impulse.  As  far  as  you  will  trust  your  little 
daughter  to  me,  I  am  her  friend,  I  am  your  friend.  I  will 
make  every  effort  to  shield  and  protect  her  as  I  would  shield 
and  protect  my  own  daughter,  if  I  had  one.  My  house  is  her 
second  home  if  she  will  accept  it;  all  the  pleasures  and  ad 
vantages  I  can  command  are  at  her  service.  Do  not  say  yes  or 

4 


74  CHRISTINE'S  BENEFACTRESS. 

no  to  me  :  only  remember  my  offer  and  the  earnestness  with 
which  I  make  it;  and  whenever  you  can  in  any  point  accept  it, 
reflect  that  you  are  doing  me  the  greatest  kindness  you  could 
have  it  in  your  power  to  do." 

•  The  woman  of  impulse  got  up,  for  Christine,  with  her  bonnet 
on,  was  coming  down  the  stairs.  She  gave  both  her  hands  to 
the  Rector  and  looked  at  him  through  eyes  that  swam  with 
tears.  She  had  talked  herself  into  the  belief  that  she  loved 
Christine,  and  was  going  to  save  her ;  she  was  quite  melted 
with  her  own  eloquence  ;  besides,  she  always  cried  extremely 
easy,  particularly  after  she  had  been  up  late,  and  was  more  than 
ordinarily  nervous  from  any  cause  whatever. 

Dr.  Uphara  did  not  attempt  to  answer  her,  but  he  took  her 
hand  in  evident  agitation,  and  looked  away  from  Christine,  who 
entered  as  if  the  new  thoughts  connected  with  her  were  quite 
unbearable. 

And  when  she  had  been  swept  away  by  the  gay  party,  and 
Dr.  Catherwood,  throwing  himself  upon  his  horse,  had  gallopped 
off  in  an  opposite  direction,  the  Rector  sank  back  in  his  study- 
chair,  and  lived  over  again  in  bitter  thought  the  remorse  and 
anguish  of  his  first  deceived  hope. 

Christine,  then,  had  come  to  years  of  womanhood  ;  his  pale 
blossom  was  flushing  into  bloom  ;  his  little  nun  was  attracting 
the  glances  of  the  world;  his  motherless  child  had  come  to  the 
same  point  of  danger  that  had  proved  fatal  to  her  sister.  He 
almost  wished  she  were  lying  with  the  others  in  the  quiet 
churchyard,  "  under  the  long  grass  of  years,"  her  soul  safe  with 
her  mother's  in  the  paradise  of  God — her  place  vacant  at  his 
side,  but  her  companionship  insured  to  him  through  the  long 
eternity  of  heaven.  The  bitter  thought  of  what  might  be  in 
store  for  her  in  life,  took  away  his  faith  and  strength  ;  the  re 
membrance  of  that  dark  death-bed  palsied  his  powers  of  hope. 

He  had  lost  one  child,  lost  her — he  faced  it  then  in  all  its 
blackness ;  how  should  he  live  to  see  the  mortal  peril  of 


CHRISTINE'S  BENEFACTRESS.  75 

another  ?  How  could  he  shield  her  ?  Where  hide  her  from 
the  danger  that  advanced  upon  her  ?  They  said  rightly  he  was 
no  fit  guardian  for  her ;  having  let  one  perish,  how  should  he 
presume  still  to  keep  the  other  in  his  charge  ?  It  was  true  he 
was  unfit ;  but  to  whom  give  her  up  ?  To  this  new  friend  of 
whom  he  knew  so  little  ?  Could  she  be  better  to  her  than  her 
father?  She  was  a  woman,  he  was  a  man,  sad  and  old  as  well ; 
he  was  so  far  removed  from  her  in  every  way,  he  hardly  under 
stood  her,  he  could  not  hope  to  guide  her  heart. 

But  why  need  she  marry  ?  Why  was  it  inevitable  she  should 
leave  ever  her  quiet  home,  her  safe  humility  ?  Ah  !  why  had 
they  found  her  out  ? 

He  would  speak  to  her,  would  warn  her. 

What !  take  all  her  childish  innocence  away  ?  Turn  her 
simple  youth  to  careful  womanhood  ?  No,  no,  my  little  girl ; 
the  years  full  soon 

"  will  bring  the  inevitable  yoke." 

"  Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  lifel" 

Let  her  be  simple  still ;  let  the  dark  day  be  unanticipated — 
the  evil,  evil  hour  of  danger  unprovoked.  She  might  have 
this  friendship,  but  he  could  not  give  her  up  to  it;  he  would 
watch  her  as  well  as  he  knew  how,  and  keep  her  from  the 
world  as  long  as  possible. 

Then,  when  she  went  into  it,  he  would  sanctify  the  air  about 
her  with  his  prayers. 


76  THE  MILLER'S  FAMILY. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE  MILLER'S  FAMILY. 

"  Qul  est  bien,  qu'il  s'y  tienne." 

HARRY  GILMORE  was  the  bete  noire  among  the  boys  of ; 

he  was  the  wickedest  and  wildest  of  them  all,  and  he  had  been 
little  Julian  Upham's  chosen  comrade  for  the  past  two  years. 
It  was  a  great  scandal  to  the  critical  people  that  the  minister 
should  let  his  grandson  keep  such  company ;  but,  indeed,  the 
minister  did  not  have  much  to  say  about  it.  It  was  a  law  of 
ancient  date  that  Julian  should  never,  under  any  circumstances, 
have  anything  to  do  with  that  young  outlaw  ;  but  it  had  long 
since  gone  into  oblivion,  and  was  an  idle  record  on  the  statute- 
book.  Julian  was  an  exceptional  child,  and  could  not  be  bound 
by  laws.  "  Nae  will  he  minded  but  his  ane,"  and  that  led  him 
straight  into  the  society  of  the  miller's  boy,  and  into  the  wildest 
kind  of  brawls  with  him  also.  They  quarrelled  like  cata 
mounts  ;  they  gave  each  other  "  bloody  noses  and  cracked 
crowns,"  and  yet  they  seemed  unable  to  live  out  of  each  other's 
sight. 

They  were  both  bad  boys,  but  public  opinion  was  divided  as 
to  which  was  worst.  Harry,  with  all  his  wildness,  had  not 
much  talent  for  deceit,  and  so  came  oftenest  to  grief;  while 
Julian  was  much  fonder  of  telling  lies  than  of  doing  anything 
else,  and  generally  came  out  of  scrapes  much  cleaner  than  his 
comrade.  One  was  wicked  with  the  wickedness  of  a  child,  the 
other  was  vicious  with  the  vice  of  a  matured  mind. 

They  were  very  near  the  same  age ;  but  Harry,  brown  and 


THE  MILLER'S  FAMILY.  77 

ruddy,  was  a  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  his  companion,  and 
looked  a  well  grown  lad,  while  the  other  seemed  still  only  a 
curled  darling  of  the  nursery.  It  was  in  vain  Crescens  and  the 
household  servants  counselled  him  to  fight  with  gentlemen's 
sons,  if  he  must  fight  with  anybody  ;  and  it  was  in  vain  every 
obstacle  was  placed  in  the  way  of  his  intercourse  with  Harry  ; 
Harry  haunted  the  Parsonage  garden  day  and  night,  and  Julian 
was  as  much  at  home  in  the  miller's  house  as  Harry  was 
himself. 

The  miller's  house  was  a  very  good  one  to  have  the  entree 
of;  it  must  be  confessed  ;  there  were  always  the  very  best 
imaginable  cookies  in  the  pantry,  and  pickles  that  beggared  all 
description,  besides  cider  in  the  cellar  and  an  unlimited  store 
of  nuts. 

The  miller  was  a  mild,  easy  man,  from  whom  Harry  got  his 
blue  eyes  and  his  forgiving  disposition  ;  and  his  wife  was  a  stir 
ring,  energetic,  high-tempered  woman,  from  whom  the  boy 
inherited  the  spirit  that  was  always  plunging  him  into  trouble 
and  making  him  restless  under  authority  and  rebellious  under 
chastisement.  He  was  the  only  inheritor  of  these  incongruous 
qualities ;  the  hope  and  ambition  of  his  slow-thinking  father 
and  of  his  vigorous-minded  mother,  notwithstanding  the  trouble 
he  had  given  them.  His  father  stroked  his  chin  mildly  and 
prophesied  he'd  come  all  right  by  and  by  ;  but  his  mother  fret 
ted  terribly  under  the  disgrace  of  his  continual  misdoings, 
though  she  always  took  his  part  when  he  was  punished,  and 
encouraged  in  him  the  fatal  idea  that  he  was  not  justly  dealt 
with.  She  felt  a  continual  distrust  of  her  superiors,  and 
brought  Harry  up  to  feel  that  rich  people  were  his  natural  ene 
mies,  and  that  he  had  the  same  right  they  had  to  be  of  conse 
quence. 

The  fact  was,  the  misfortune  of  the  miller's  wife  was,  that  she 
was  the  miller's  wife.  She  was  a  tall,  handsome,  black-eyed 
woman,  with  a  will  and  temper  that  needed  a  stronger  hand 


78  THE   MILLER'S   FAMILY.  . 

than  Richard  Gilmore's  to  keep  down,  and  she  went  through  life 
bearing  the  burden  of  her  great  mistake,  fretting  at  her  lot,  try 
ing  to  make  up  for  his  short-comings,  and  corroding  the  peace  of 
their  home  by  the  suggestions  of  her  ambition.  Ambition  is  a 
very  high-bred  vice  to  get  into  a  miller's  family,  but  it  is  well 
known  to  be  a  very  insidious  one,  and  not  at  all  particular  as  to 
the  company  it  keeps.  Phoebe  Gilmore  loved  her  husband,  but 
she  was  stronger  and  more  developed  than  he  was  in  every 
point,  and  went  beyond  him,  and  was  unsatisfied,  and  wore  her 
self  out  in  fretting  at  his  deficiencies.  If  she  had  been  born  in 
a  different  station,  she  might  have  been  a  great  woman,  for  she 
had  great  qualities ;  if  she  had  married  another  man  in  the 
same  station  in  which  she  was,  she  might  have  been  a  happy 
woman,  for  she  had  strong  affections. 

Her  restless  energy  had  some  good  effects,  however ;  it  stimu 
lated  her  husband  to  exertions  he  would  never  have  made  with 
out  it ;  she  gave  him  no  peace  till  he  had  paid  off  his  old  debts 
and  begun  to  lay  up  something  for  his  boy.  The  mill  and  house 
belonged  to  the  Sherman  estate,  and  the  agent  being  well  dis 
posed  towards  Richard,  it  had  been  let  to  him  on  easy  terms,  so 
that  he  was,  all  things  considered,  doing  well  for  himself,  and 
his  wife  ought  to  have  been  satisfied. 

Mrs.  Gilmore  looked  with  a  doubtful  eye  upon  Harry's  inti 
macy  with  Julian ;  sometimes  she  fancied  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  him,  and  help  him  to  rise  a  little  when  they  were  both 
grown  up  ;  but  more  times  she  condemned  it  in  her  stubborn 
pride  as  a  misfortune  to  the  boy  in  every  way,  an  intercourse 
only  destined  to  last  while  they  were  children,  and  to  be  repu 
diated  when  Julian  was  old  enough  to  discriminate  high  friends 
from  low  ones.  She  had  played  when  she  was  a  school-girl  with 
Julian's  mother,  and  had  been  treated  with  contempt  by  the  fine 
young  lady  when  she  was  grown  up.  Therefore  she  knew  what 
was  in  store  for  Harry,  unless  she  managed  to  get  him  a  good 
education  and  start  him  in  the  world  respectably  and  early. 


THE  MILLER'S  FAMILY.  79 

She  was  always  suspecting  a  prejudice  against  Harry  at  the  Par 
sonage,  and  could  not  believe  that  the  objections  entertained 
there  against  their  intercourse  had  foundation  in  anything  but 
the  difference  of  their  station. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Dr.  Upham  repeatedly  explained  to  her 
that  the  boys  had  a  bad  influence  upon  each  other ;  that  Julian 
was  as  much,  if  not  more  at  fault  than  Harry ;  and  that  if  they 
were  differently  disposed  regarding  mischief,  there  was  no  one's 
child  whom  he  would  have  welcomed  as  a  playmate  for  his 
grandson  more  cordially  than  hers.  But  she  could  not  be  con 
vinced,  or  rather  could  not  stay  convinced,  two  hours  after  she 
was  out  of  the  good  Doctor's  presence.  She  treated  Julian  with 
severity  when  he  came  to  the  mill,  and  forbade  Harry  to  go 
near  the  Parsonage ;  but  she  might  have  saved  herself  the 
trouble,  for  all  she  said  and  did  went  for  nothing  with  the  boys. 
They  robbed  birds'  nests  in  company,  they  filched  apples,  they 
scrawled  on  walls,  they  unhinged  gates,  they  plundered  melon 
patches,  they  murdered  cats,  always  antagonistic  and  only  held 
together  by  a  common  propensity  for  doing  wrong.  The  Rector 
was  grieved  by  his  grandson's  lawless  ways,  but  he  looked  upon 
them  with  something  of  the  miller's  mild  philosophy ;  while 
Christine,  though  in  a  very  different  way,  took  them  almost  as 
much  to  heart  as  Harry's  mother  did.  She  was  terribly  dis 
turbed  at  the  first  symptoms  of  his  perverse  inclinations,  and  as 
they  developed  themselves  more  strongly,  she  was  frightened 
and  sore  at  heart.  Her  sensitive  conscience  was  in  an  agony 
for  his  sins  continually ;  she  felt  she  did  not  understand  him, 
that  she  had  no  influence  upon  him,  that  she  was  not  doing  her 
duty  to  him,  while  her  father's  composure  made  her  feel  she 
must  exaggerate  the  danger,  and  that  she  was  in  fault  in  some 
way  not  to  be  as  hopeful  as  he  was. 

From  Dr.  Catherwood,  when  at  last  she  had  brought  herself 
to  speak  to  him  of  faults  that,  with  the  true  mother  instinct,  she 
bad  tried  to  hide  from  all  the  world,  she  had  received  a  great 


80  THE  MILLER'S  FAMILY. 

deal  of  comfort.  He  had  told  her  not  to  try  to  understand  boy- 
nature,  not  to  be  horrified  at  the  enormities  it  displayed  ;  to  take 
it  as  a  certain  truth  that  boys  are  judged  by  a  different  measure 
from  their  softer-hearted  sisters,  and  do  not  come  to  years  of 
responsibility  half  as  soon.  He  assured  her  he  had  spent  years 
of  his  life  robbing  birds'  nests,  unhinging  gates,  plundering 
melon  patches,  and  had  had  no  warnings  from  his  conscience  of 
its  sinfalness ;  boys'  consciences  were  so  curiously  constructed, 
no  woman  could  ever  possibly  hope  to  understand  their  work 
ings.  Christine  had  been  very  much  relieved  by  this  confession 
of  his  early  wickedness,  but  had  asked  doubtfully  if  he  had  told 
falsehoods,  too,  without  any  provocation  or  occasion,  and  been 
vicious  and  disrespectful  and  unloving?  He  had  answered 
rather  evasively,  but  had  managed  to  satisfy  her,  and  she  had 
felt,  after  that,  as  if  half  the  burden  were  removed. 

He  did  not  manage  to  satisfy  himself,  however;  he  saw  in 
the  boy  Julian  indications  of  a  spirit  he  understood,  from  per 
sonal  experience,  almost  as  little  as  his  young  aunt  did.  There 
was  a  warp  somewhere  in  him,  a  distortion  that  time  was  not 
correcting,  an  elfin  nature  growing  up  stealthily  beside  the 
boy-nature  and  whispering  evil  to  it  night  and  day,  twisting 
and  dwarfing  and  marring  it.  The  poison  of  his  early  child 
hood  had  entered  every  vein ;  half  he  had  inherited  in  his 
mother's  blood,  half  she  had  engrafted  upon  his  impressionable 
infancy.  In  body  as  in  mind  he  was  strange  and  complicated ; 
needing  the  tenderest  care,  the  firmest  control,  the  coolest 
judgment ;  he  absorbed  insensibly  the  time  and  thought  of  all 
around  him ;  ungrateful  and  unloving,  he  yet  bound  all  to  him 
with  the  strongest  ties.  His  delicacy,  his  helplessness  during 
his  frequent  illnesses,  his  great  beauty,  his  inexplicable  vagaries, 
his  very  elfishness,  made  him  fascinating  to  every  one  who 
was  brought  in  contact  with  him.  The  townspeople  called 
him  "little  Prince,"  the  schoolboys  jeered  him  for  his  fine 
clothes  and  yellow  curls,  the  old  gossips  shook  their  heads 


THE  MILLER'S  FAMILY.  81 

and  said  hard  things  about  his  future ;  but  one  and  all  looked 
after  him  with  involuntary  admiration,  and  with  few  excep 
tions  bent  before  his  will  when  it  came  in  contact  with  their 

own. 

4* 


82  THE  RECTOR'S  RESIGNATION. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  RECTOR'S  RESIGNATION. 

"  Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser,  men  become, 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home  ; 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view, 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new." 

WALLER. 
.  x 

"  CATHERWOOD,"  said  the  Rector,  dropping  absently  a  second 
lump  of  sugar  in  his  cup  of  cafe  noir  and  drawing  it  towards 
him  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  "  I  have  concluded  it  is 
right ;  you  will  not  doubt  me  when  I  say  I  had  a  hard  fight 
to  come  to  it." 

"To  come  to  what,  my  dear  sir?"  asked  Dr.  Catherwood, 
looking  up  with  a  little  wonder. 

They  were  all  alone,  and  Dr.  Catherwood  could  not  quite 
decide  from  his  companion's  tone  whether  some  after-dinner 
confidence  was  coming,  or  merely  the  statement  of  some  newly 
defined  principle  in  ecclesiastical  polity.  Christine  was  away, 
taking  dinner  at  the  Hill ;  it  was  only  a  fortnight  since  the 
first  one,  and  this  was  the  fourth  or  fifth  ;  by  which  it  will 
be  seen  that  Mrs.  Sherman  had  had  good  success  in  her  nego 
tiations  with  the  Rector.  Julian  had  slid  out  of  the  room  with 
his  pockets  full  of  desirable  plunder  from  the  table  soon  after 
the  dessert  came  in ;  the  maid-servant  having  brought  in  the 
coffee,  had  at  last  retired,  and  the  two  gentlemen  were  left  alone 
in  the  pleasant  dining-room.  The  windows  opened  upon  the 
garden,  now  in  all  the  beauty  of  the  midsummer ;  the  furniture 
of  the  room  was  old-fashioned  and  clumsy ;  so  was  the  service 


THE  RECTOR'S  RESIGNATION'.  ed 

of  the  table,  but  rich  and  elegant  in  an  old-fashioned  way. 
There  was  but  one  decanter  of  wine  before  them,  but  its  odor 
and  its  color  showed  it  had  "  grown  fat  on  Lusitanian  summers." 
There  was  fruit  in  a  heavy  silver  dish,  and  the  coffee  was 
served  in  dainty  little  cups  of  India  china.  And  the  waitress 
had  put  a  stand  of  cigars  on  the  table,  and  there  was  every 
thing  propitious  for  an  undisturbed  luxurious  hour  of  quiet. 

"A  hard  fight  to  come  to  what,  my  dear  sir?"  said  the 
guest,  with  interest  and  perhaps  a  little  shade  of  apprehen 
sion. 

"  To  come  to  the  decision  that  it  is  my  duty  to  give  up  and 
let  them  send  for  Saul.  Nay  more,  to  go  and  fetch  him  to 
them,  and  pour  the  oil  upon  his  head  with  my  own  hands. 
I  begin  to  distrust  myself  sadly,  Catherwood  ;  perhaps  I  have  held 
out  too  long ;  but  up  to  the  present  time  I  have  felt  I  really 
was  not  selfish.  Now  I  see  we  must  not  be  Providence  for 
people  ;  we  have  no  right  to  say  they  shall  be  saved  our  way ; 
who  knows,  there  may  be  something  new  will  touch  them  ; 
there  is  a  great  deal  I  have  left  unsaid  ;  perhaps  some  younger 
man  can  say  it  better.  At  all  events,  he  shall  have  the  chance ; 
I  am  not  any  longer  to  be  in  the  way  of  those  who  ask  a  newer 
and  more  stirring  method  ;  I  have  sent  for  my  vestry  ;  in  half 
an  hour  I  must  go  and  meet  them,  and  leave  you  to  your  cigar 
alone." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  said  his  companion  earnestly,  "  are  you 
sure  this  is  well  digested?  Are  you  not  doing  this  because  it  is 
a  sacrifice,  and  because  you  feel  you  would  rather  err  on  the 
safe  side  to  yourself?  Make  yourself  quite  sure  of  that,  I  beg 
of  you,  before  you  publish  this  resolution.  One  is  so  apt,  my 
good  sir,  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  clear  one's  self  of  a  temptation, 
even  at  the  risk  of  giving  a  wrong  judgment  for  the  benefit  of 
others.  Consider  you  are  dealing  with  minds  that  are  as 
children's  in  comparison  with  your  own  ;  do  not  let  their  impor 
tunity  or  their  vacillation  influence  you  unduly.  This  is  a  most 


84  THE  RECTOR'S  RESIGNATION. 

important  step.  Have  you  been  able  to  look  at  it,  putting 
yourself  entirely  out  of  mind  ?" 

"  It  is  my  belief  I  have  done  so ;  I  believe  that  I  am  doing 
right.  The  strongest  of  us  can  ask  no  more  than  light  enough 
to  do  that  faithfully.  You  know  it  is  not  a  new  thought  with 
me.  I  have  been  looking  at  it  from  a  thousand  points  of  view. 
I  have  been  studying  it  every  day  since  I  first  began  to  see  I 
did  not  satisfy  the  younger  and  more  unstable  of  my  flock,  and 
now  I  can  no  longer  feel  doubt  enough  to  permit  me  to  remain 
their  pastor.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  talent  and  earnestness  in 
the  Church,  Catherwood,  and  there  is  no  reason  that  we  should 
not  get  a  man  who  can  do  them  all  good ;  they  need  a  stimu 
lant,  perhaps.  I  myself  may  be  better  for  a  change." 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  said  his  companion,  in  an  anxious  tone, 
"  you  are  too  old  for  such  a  change  as  this — you  will  not  under 
take  another  charge — you  cannot  bear  this  transplanting  at  your 
age.  You  cannot  mean  to  leave  this  house — the  comforts  you 
have  gathered  round  you — your  daughter's  home — the  home  of 
all  who  have  gone  before  you.  It  is  not  right ;  believe  me,  it 
is  not." 

A  shade  of  agitation  crossed  the  Rector's  face,  but  presently 
gave  way  again  to  the  calm  of  his  habitual  look. 

"It  will  depend  upon  my  successor,  somewhat,  whether  I  am 
compelled  to  leave  my  home.  I  shall  not  undertake  another 
charge  ;  I  feel  myself  unequal  to  it,  and  I  would  fain  stay  in  this 
house,  if  any  arrangement  can  be  made  to  do  it.  No  doubt  I 
have  a  right  to ;  it  is  virtually  Christine's,  but  it  ought  to  be  the 
Parsonage  if  a  man  of  family  comes  to  keep  it  up.  I  shall  tell 
them  so.  I  mean  to  give  it  up  to  the  Church.  There  is  no 
other  suitable  residence  in  the  place.  It  is  useless  to  talk  about 
it.  Christine  is  a  brave  little  girl;  she  will  not  make  it  any 
harder  for  me.  No  doubt  it  is  well  to  crucify  this  cowardice — 
this  tenderness  for  the  past — this  living  on  the  memories  of 
•what  God  has  taken.  I  doubt  if  it  is  healthy  ;  perhaps  it  haa 


THE  RECTOR'S  RESIGNATION.  85 

been  bad  for  Christine.  I  am  afraid  she  is  not  like  other 
children  of  her  age  ;  she  needs  life  ;  she  has  had  only  shadows 
heretofore.  Perhaps  it  will  be  better  for  her  to  be  taken  away 
from  here  ;  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  for  me.  The  Lord  that 
has  been  wise  in  the  past  will  be  merciful  in  the  future." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Dr.  Catherwood  sat  looking  fix 
edly  before  him,  his  glass  of  wine  untasted  at  his  side.  The 
Rector  remained  motionless  for  a  long  while ;  at  last  raised  hia 
coffee  to  his  lips  and  drank  it  off;  then  rising,  said,  "Shall  I 
find  you  here  when  I  come  back  ?"  while  he  glanced  towards  the 
clock. 

He  was  not  very  attentive  to  his  guest's  answer ;  it  was  half- 
past  three,  the  hour  for  the  vestry  meeting,  and,  taking  up  his 
hat,  he  went  out  of  the  room.  Dr.  Catherwood  pressed  his 
hand  before  his  eyes  for  a  moment  with  an  impatient,  gloomy 
look ;  then  rising,  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  watched  his 
host  slowly  following  the  path  that  led  across  the  garden  to  the 
churchyard  gate.  His  step  was  heavy  and  unwilling,  his  face 
sad  beyond  expression.  He  looked  down  the  sunny  walks,  and 
seemed  to  hear  again  the  voices  of  his  lost  children  playing 
there.  He  pushed  aside  the  honeysuckle  that  drooped  across 
the  gateway — the  honeysuckle  that  his  young  wife's  hand  had 
planted ;  and  then  his  eye  fell  on  the  grass-grown  mounds 
within,  sleeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  church — dear  beyond 
belief  to  him,  sacred  as  no  other  earth  could  be. 

Ah !  the  children  of  strangers  would  soon  be  playing  among 
the  garden  walks ;  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  no  tender  memo 
ries  to  soften  them,  would  daily  fall  upon  those  grassy  graves ; 
the  feet  that  had  trod  that  churchyard  path  for  forty  faithful 
years,  must  turn  into  new  and  unaccustomed  ways.  But, 
patience  !  This  land  of  shadows  will  soon  be  past ;  the  abiding 
City,  the  better  country,  is  not  far  off;  an  earthly  home — that 
is,  an  inn  ;  a  heavenly  one — that  is,  Love's  blessed  rest  and 
sanctuary. 


86  DK.  UPHAM'S  SUCCESSOE. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
DR.  UPHAM'S  SUCCESSOR. 

"  Le  roi  ett  mort — 'Dive  le  roi  I" 

IT  was  the  third  Sunday  after  Trinity,  a  beautiful  July  day,  and 
the  new  minister  was  to  make  his  debut ;  consequently  the 
church  was  very  full.  Mrs.  Sherman  was  in  a  flutter  of  enthu 
siasm,  for  the  new  minister  was  a  proteye  of  hers,  and  she 
arrived  earlier  than  she  had  ever  been  known  to  arrive  at 
church  before. 

The  Clybourne  pew  was  full,  Susie  and  her  husband  and  two 
of  the  little  girls  having  driven  over  from  their  country  home  at 

B to  hear  the  young  minister's  first  sermon.     This  was  a 

proof  of  the  importance  of  the  occasion,  for  it  was  a  long  drive 
in  warm  weather,  and  Susie  had  not  often  force  enough  to  get 
herself  ready  in  time.  Her  husband  had  very  much  the  features 
and  expression  of  an  old  sheep  ;  Madeline  despised  him  too 
much  to  sit  in  the  pew  with  him,  and  was  impolite  enough  to  go 
over  to  Mrs.  Sherman's  the  moment  he  came  in,  shaking  herself 
clear  of  the  two  children,  who  grabbed  her  unceremoniously, 
and  passing  Susie  with  a  little  nod.  She  was  at  the  age  that 
cannot  understand  that  stupid  people  have  any  right  to  live. 
Her  mother  watched  her  with  a  grave  face ;  she  rather  admired 
her  self-will  and  high  spirit,  it  seemed  so  young,  and  from  her 
point  of  view  was  almost  picturesque ;  but  still  she  dreaded  its 
effects. 

Madeline  was  not  only  very  perverse  about  her  brother-in-law, 
but  she  had  a  very  well  developed  contempt  for  many  of  the 


DR.    UPHAM'S   SUCCESSOR.  87 

decencies  of  modern  life ;  among  others,  for  that  of  going  to 
church  on  week  days,  teaching  in  parish  schools,  and  visiting 
sick  old  women.  She  did  not  take  kindly  to  the  refined  semi- 
religious  fashionable  young-lady  life  that  was  held  up  to  her, 
and  Mrs.  Clybourne  had  ceased  to  insist  upon  her  following  it. 
She  generally  came  to  church  on  Sunday  morning,  and  spent 
the  afternoon  in  writing  letters.  She  laughed  at  the  old  women 
and  the  Dorcas  work-basket,  and  did  not  make  it  a  point  of 
conscience  to  conceal  the  fact  that  Dr.  Upham's  sermons  made 
her  very  sleepy,  and  that  she  thought  the  service  was  into 
lerably  long. 

It  must  be  confessed  she  had  not  very  prepossessing  forms  of 
religious  character  about  her.  Susie  had  always  been  orthodox 
about  the  old  women  and  the  parish  school,  and  her  brother-in- 
law  was  a  vestryman,  warden,  or  something  of  that  sort.  Mrs. 
Sherman  was  a  sentimental,  emotional,  high-church  woman ; 
and  as  for  her  mother — Maddy  respected  and  loved  her  mother, 
but  her  practice  did  not  inspire  her  with  much  enthusiasm  for 
her  religious  faith. 

She  had  always  had,  though,  a  vague,  groping  hope  strug 
gling  upwards  through  the  vanities  and  follies  of  her  soul,  that 
there  was  something  beautiful  and  good  in  religion  after  all,  and 
that  she  should  some  time  reach  to  the  knowledge  of  it.  But 
something  very  different  from  the  religion  that  she  saw  about 
her. 

She  wondered  what  the  young  clergyman  would  be  like ;  she 
was  prepared  to  ridicule  him  very  much  and  to  make  him  ter 
ribly  afraid  of  her ;  she  had  given  Mrs.  Sherman  warning  that 
she  meant  to  make  his  life  a  burden  to  him  ;  nevertheless  she 
thought  with  satisfaction  that  her  toilette  was  very  happy,  and 
that  the  Sherman  pew  was  more  prominent  than  any  in  the 
church  except  the  Rector's. 

In  the* Rector's  pew  sat  Dr.  Upham  himself;  the  painful 
nightmare  of  exile  had  passed,  and  he  still  found  himself  undis- 


88  DR.   UPHAM'S    SUCCESSOR. 

turbed  in  his  old  home.  His  resignation  had. surprised  all  the 
disaffected  out  of  their  plottings  against  him,  and  had  roused  all 
the  loyal  into  enthusiasm,  and  they  had  unanimously  refused  to 
accept  it.  This  had  not  shaken  his  resolution,  however ;  he 
only  yielded  to  their  solicitation  far  enough  to  agree  to  keep  the 
parsonage,  and  to  consider  himself  as  resting  temporarily  from 
the  duties  of  his  charge  while  his  successor  occupied  the  pulpit 
for  a  year  or  two  on  trial. 

The  Rector  acceded  with  his  benevolent  mild  smile  to  this 
view  of  the  case ;  but  he  knew  his  day  was  over,  and  that  his 
work  was  ended  there.  Indeed  the  animation  with  which  they 
set  about  finding  a  suitable  successor  did  not  look  very  much  as 
if  he  were  meant  to  be  only  temporary.  There  was  plotting 
and  counter-plotting,  and  wire-pulling  and  intriguing,  among  the 
friends  of  the  opposing  candidates,  for  the  charge  of  St.  Philip's 
was  considered  a  very  comfortable  and  altogether  a  desira 
ble  charge  in  clerical  circles,  and  ever  since  the  news  of  Dr.  Up- 
ham's  resignation  had  been  afloat,  there  had  been  many  disen 
gaged  eyes  turned  affectionately  towards  it.  Two  weeks  had 
been  spent  in  wrangling  over  generalities,  two  weeks  more  in  a 
close  race  between  a  first-class  high-church  elocutionist  and  a 
popular  evangelical  revolutionist.  Both  these,  however,  were 
thrown  over  by  the  sudden  and  unexpected  withdrawal  of  the 
Sherman  influence,  which  was  fixed  upon  a  new  and  undis- 
cussed  candidate — a  "youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown," 
new-fledged  from  the  seminary,  just  trying  his  wings  on  a  short 
flight.  Before  any  one  knew  exactly  what  was  under  discussion 
he  was  called,  had  accepted,  and  was  expected  to  arrive  among 
them.  It  was  all  done  in  a  masterly  way  ;  the  lancet  was  so 
sharp  the  defrauded  majority  had  not  felt  any  pain  till  every 
thing  was  over,  and  they  found  they  had  been  cheated  out  of 
any  voice  in  the  affair.  Owing  to  this  fermentation,  the  young 
divine  was  not  destined  to  step  into  a  very  peaceful  parish  ;  but 
of  the  disturbed  state  of  feeling  among  his  parishioners  he  was 


DR.    UPHAM'S   SUCCESSOR.  89 

kept  in  happy  ignorance  till  he  became  intimate  enough  with 
them  to  hear  the  story  from  each  one  with  embellishments,  and  to 
be  warned  against  every  person  with  whom  he  had  anything  to  do. 

But  this  was  the  awakening ;  on  the  morning  of  his  first  com 
ing  into  the  old  church,  with  its  well  filled  pews,  its  venerable 
altar,  its  open  sunshiny  windows,  and  its  green  embowering  shade 
around,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Brockhulst  felt  as  if  the  lines  had 
fallen  to  him  in  pleasant  places,  and  as  if  he  had,  indeed,  a 
goodly  heritage.  He  had  about  as  clear  an  idea  of  the  duties 
and  trials  of  a  parish  priest,  as  a  young  bride  has  of  the  duties 
and  trials  of  housekeeping  before  she  enters  on  them.  The 
young  bride  has  a  general  idea  of  a  bright  fire,  cheerful  lamp, 
flowers  upon  the  table,  pink  curtains  in  her  dressing-room,  and 
company  to  dinner  every  day  ;  the  young  clergyman  had  a 
vague  picture  in  his  mind  of  an  ivied  porch,  a  rustic  flock, 
sweet  babies  to  be  christened,  hoary-headed  pilgrims  to  be  laid 
in  churchyard  ground,  Christmas  feasts  at  which  his  presence 
would  be  the  crowning  joy,  Lenten  services  in  which  pastor  and 
people  both  would  go  down  upon  their  knees  in  penitence  and 
chant  the  Miserere  in  a  minor  key.  He  was  but  twenty-three 
years  old,  ordained  only  a  month  before,  a  student  up  to '  the 
very  moment  of  his  ordination  ;  of  an  enthusiastic  poetic  mind, 
and  as  ignorant  of  human  nature  as  if  he  had  been  Robinson 
Crusoe's  eldest  son. 

Everything  was  new  to  him  but  study,  life,  action,  the  face 
of  nature  ;  everything  wore  the  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a 
dream.  He  had  a  good  deal  of  talent^  and  in  the  seminary 
was  looked  upon  as  very  promising  ;  he  had  been  religious  and 
pure-minded  from  his  childhood,  and  had  never  had  a  thought 
of  any  other  career  than  the  one  for  which  he  had  been  brought 
up.  He  was  unpractical,  which  was  not  his  fault,  considering 
he  had  never  had  to  do  with  anything  but  theories ;  he  had  an 
ideal,  which  was  natural,  but  he  was  wedded  to  it,  which  was 
unfortunate. 


90  DR.  UPHAM'S  SUCCESSOR. 

His  voice  was  perfect,  lie  read  to  the  admiration  of  his  listen 
ers;  his  manner  was  earnest,  nai've,  and  touching ;  his  face  was 
boyish,  delicate,  and  beautiful.  What  he  had  to  say  was  very 
well,  rather  young  and  a  good  deal  decorated,  but  the  voice 
and  the  manner  and  the  face  made  it  like  the  message  of  an 
angel,  and  the  congregation  went  home  enchanted.  With 
some  few  exceptions ;  there  were  several  tiresomely  critical 
people  who  brushed  aside  the  graceful  drapery  of  manner,  and 
looked  at  the  bare  thought,  and  said  "  Well  ?"  in  an  interroga 
tive  and  doubtful  tone.  There  were  other  practical  ones  who 
said  they  had  not  heard  any  news,  and  some,  again,  who  had 
grown  so  used  to  the  old  Rector's  quiet,  thoughtful,  suggestive 
sermons,  that  they  could  not  get  in  love  at  once  with  anything 
so  different.  Still,  all  felt  the  influence  of  the  new  minister's 
earnestness,  all  yielded  more  or  less  to  the  magnetism  of  his 
warm  enthusiasm,  and  all  went  home  with  strong  though 
diverse  impressions  of  his  character. 


ST.   PHILIP'S   IX   NEW   HAXDS.  91 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ST.    PHILIP'S    IN    NEW    HANDS. 

"  More  belongs  to  riding  than  a  pair  of  boots." 

REFORMS  began  ;  Mrs.  Sherman  was  inspired  .with  new  life 
by  the  tide  of  excitement  rushing  into  the  recent  vacuum  in 
the  church  ;  she  found  herself  full  of  occupation,  and  conse 
quently  much  happier  than  she  ordinarily  was.  She  felt  that 
the  whole  church  rested  on  her  shoulders ;  she  wondered  how 
it  had  ever  existed  before  she  took  it  up.  She  always  spoke  of 
Dr.  TJpham  as  her  poor  dear  old  friend,  and  of  the  present 
incumbent  as  her  beloved  pastor. 

She  aimed  to  make  herself  popular  with  the  people  of  the 
town,  and  visited  those  whom  she  had  never  visited  before. 
She  played  the  gracious  lady  right  and  left,  and  made  herself 
conspicuous  in  all  charitable  matters.  She  reorganized  the 
Sunday-school,  remodelled  the  Dorcas  enterprise,  and  made  a 
complete  bouleversement  in  the  matter  of  the  choir.  She  also 
instituted  great  changes  in  the  hours  of  service  ;  the  old  bell, 
which  for  forty  years  had  rung  its  daily  summons  at  the  com 
fortable  and  common  sensical  hour  of  nine,  now  yawned  out  a 
call  to  prayers  at  six  ;  the  Sunday  evening  service  was  changed 
from  four  to  five,  to  accommodate  the  Hill ;  while  most  of  the 
humbler  worshippers  of  St.  Philip's  had  to  stay  at  home  to  boil 
the  kettle  for  the  evening  meal.  She  swept  the  besom  of  de 
struction  through  the  chancel,  and  gave  the  vestry  no  rest  day 
or  night  till  they  consented  to  allow  her  to  remodel  it — and  she 
did  everything  with  the  air  and  manner  of  a  pioneer  and  as  if 


92  '  ST.  PHILIP'S  IN  NEW  HANDS. 

nobody  had  ever  done  anything  before  her,  and  made  the  peo 
ple  who  had  been  in  the  church  for  years  feel  exceedingly  irate 
and  uncomfortable. 

Still,  only  one  dared  openly  to  oppose  her ;  one  who  would 
have  had  the  moral  courage  to  have  opposed  a  locomotive  under 
a  full  head  of  steam  if  she  had  conceived  it  to  be  getting  in  her 
way  at  all.  This  lady,  who  had  long  been  a  leader  in  the  af 
fairs  secular  and  spiritual  of  St.  Philip's,  named  herself  Van 
Kiper.  She  was  a  widow,  without  any  children,  with  very  lit 
tle  money,  and  with  as  few  inducements  to  continue  a  residence 
in  the  flesh  as  can  be  imagined.  Nobody  entertained  the  least 
affection  for  her,  and  she  seemed  quite  free  from  any  tender 
nesses  of  that  sort  herself.  Still,  she  did  a  great  deal  of  good  in 
her  own  hard  way,  and  was  considered  generally  a  very  excel 
lent  person.  She  was  as  strong  as  a  horse,  and  could  stand 
from  morning  till  night  cutting  out  work  for  the  Dorcas,  or 
measuring  school  children  for  their  clothes.  Her  mind  was  as 
tough  as  her  body  ;  she  was  secretary  and  treasurer  of  every 
thing,  and  carried  the  most  intricate  accounts  in  her  head 
without  the  least  confusion.  She  was  tall  and  sallow,  had  a 
heavy  energetic  tread,  and  always  wore  a  black  bonnet  and  a 
broche  shawl.  The  young  people  in  the  parish,  who  did  not 
like  her  at  all,  were  in  the  habit  of  calling  her  "  the  Bishop." 
When  the  little  sarcasm  reached  her  ears  (which  were  so  keen 
nothing  ever  escaped  them  long),  it  seemed  to  gratify  her,  if 
one  could  presume  to  say  anything  ever  gratified  her.  For 
years  she  had  done  a  full  half  of  all  the  lay  work  that  was  done 
in  the  parish.  Dr.  Upham  had  great  confidence  in  her  judg 
ment  and  ability,  and  a  certain  sort  of  respect  for  her  unflinch 
ing  independence  ;  and  a  good  deal  of  the  regret  that  he  felt  at 
the  dissolution  of  his  cabinet  came  from  the  thought  that  she 
must  go  out  with  him. 

For  that  she  must  go  out  no  one  could  for  a  moment  doubt. 
Mrs.  Sherman  had  early  taken  a  violent  dislike  to  her,  and  she 


ST.    PHILIP'S    IN    NEW    HANDS.  93 

had  early  set  her  face  sternly  against  Mrs.  Sherman's  inter 
ference.  The  two  were  incongruous,  to  say  it  in  the  softest 
way.  When  they  came  in  contact  there  was  an  explosion,  an 
explosion  that  shook  the  parish  to  its  foundation,  and  all  the 
peaceable-minded  turned  their  attention  to  keeping  them  apart 
as  much  as  might  be.  Mrs.  Sherman,  of  course,  triumphed ; 
she  had  all  the  young  people  on  her  side,  and  all  the  people 
that  were  ambitious  of  being  invited  to  the  Hill,  and  she  had 
the  new  minister's  approval  also,  and  the  conservative  voice 
was  drowned. 

It  may  seem  a  little  weak  on  the  part  of  the  new  minister 
that  he  let  Mrs.  Sherman  rule  him  so  completely ;  but  there 
are  a  good  many  things  to  be  considered.  In  the  first  place, 
he  had  no  idea  that  she  was  ruling  him  ;  he  thought  he  was 
having  everything  entirely  as  he  wanted  it  himself.  In  the 
second  place,  he  sympathized  in  a  thousand  ways  with  Mrs. 
Sherman,  and  he  found  himself  terribly  chilled  and  discon 
certed  by  the  old  cabinet,  with  Mrs.  Van  Riper  at  their  head. 
He  was  quite  unused  to  the  society  of  ladies,  and  so  was  per 
fectly  intoxicated  with  his  first  draught  of  it  at  the  Hill.  Mrs. 
Sherman  was  a  miracle  of  goodness,  generosity,  and  enthusiasm. 
Christine,  Madeline,  the  young  girls  that  he  met  there — ah, 
there  were  no  words  for  them ;  they  all  wore  yet,  indeed,  the 
glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  in 
fairy  land,  and  Mrs.  Sherman  his  good  genius.  There  never 
was  a  young  deacon,  surely,  with  such  magical  surroundings. 

There  was  no  wish  that  was  not  gratified,  no  fancy  that  was 
not  carried  out  for  him.  Money,  that  comes  so  hard  at  the 
bidding  of  most  young  clergymen,  flowed  into  his  hands  at  the 
mere  opening  of  his  lips. 

Mrs.  Sherman  always  expected  to  pay  high  for  the  indul 
gence  of  her  taste,  and  this  ecclesiastical  mania  was  certainly  an 
expensive  one  ;  but  she  did  not  mind,  and  the  Judge,  her  hus 
band,  was  glad  of  anything  that  kept  her  quietly  at  home.  It 


94  ST.  PHILIP'S  IN  NEW  HANDS. 

was  as  easy  for  him  to  be  paying  for  school-room  decorations, 
strawberry  festivals,  fonts,  altar  cloths,  and  organs,  as  for  coup&s, 
saddle-horses,  works  of  art,  or  boxes  at  the  opera  ;  and  certainly 
it  had  this  advantage,  that  it  allowed  him  a  little  rest,  and  pro 
mised  to  give  him  at  least  six  months  in  one  place,  a  luxury  to 
which  he  had  long  been  unaccustomed. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  weak  thing  for  Mr.  Brockhulst  to  be  so 
much  under  the  influence  of  such  a  woman  ;  but  how  was  he 
to  know,  pray,  that  she  was  such  a  woman  ?  How  is  pure- 
minded,  cloistered  twenty-three  to  judge  correctly  of  worldly- 
wise,  strong-willed,  scheming  forty -five  ?  It  would  have  been 
better  for  the  parish  if  he  had  understood  and  withstood ;  but 
the  age  of  miracles  is  past,  they  say,  and  Mr.  Brockhulst  only 
did  what  every  man,  lay  or  clerical,  of  his  years,  would  have 
done — namely,  walked  straight  into  the  trap,  and  thought  him 
self  in  paradise  till  he  began  to  see  he  could  not  get  out.  Dr. 
Upham  should  have  warned  him,  perhaps.  But  then  Dr. 
Upham  was  a  little  blinded  by  Mrs.  Sherman's  blandishments 
himself,  and  only  saw  half  her  faults,  and  regretted,  most  of 
all,  her  want  of  judgment  and  discretion.  Of  these,  he  did  try 
delicately  to  hint  to  his  young  successor ;  but  he,  alas !  had 
heard  so  much  of  the  dear  old  Rector's  inefficiency  and  want  of 
zeal,  that  his  mir.d  was  not  quite  in  a  state  to  be  benefited  by 
his  moderate  counsels;  and  soon  the  Doctor  began  to  think  it 
was  no  longer  his  part  to  make  suggestions  ;  that  no  young  man 
could  be  expected  patiently  to  receive  the  counsels  of  one  not 
legally  placed  over  him ;  and  so,  by  degrees,  he  withdrew  him 
self  more  and  more  from  parish  affairs,  and  only  used  his  influ- 
ejice  to  soothe  and  keep  peace  among  those  who  had  not 
benefited  by  the  change  in  the  administration ;  and  as  time 
went  on,  the  necessity  for  this  exertion  did  not  decrease. 

Mr.  Brockhulst's  salary  was  small ;  the  Rector's  having  lived 
on  his  own  property  had  given  the  parish  a  much  better  look 
than  it  would  otherwise  have  had.  So  that  it  had  been  con- 


ST.    PHILIP'S   IK   NEW   HANDS.  95 

eluded  by  the  vestry  that,  for  the  first  year  or  two,  till  the 
parish  was  built  up  a  little,  it  would  be  expedient  for  any  young 
man  assuming  the  charge  of  it,  to  assume  also  a  class  of  boys 
for  a  few  hours  in  the  day,  to  eke  out  the  salary  by  the  compen 
sation  he  would  receive.  There  was  no  good  boys'  school  in 

,  and  most  of  the  vestrymen  had  boys,  so  that  it  is  possible 

they  were   not   altogether   disinterested   in   the   matter.     Mr. 
Brockhulst  willingly  assumed  the  duty ;   he  would  have  will 
ingly  assumed  the  care  of  six  schools,  and  as  many  hospitals 
and  almshouses,  if  it  had  been  proposed  to  him,  and  would 
have  died  in  consequence  with  pleasure.     He  did  not  value  his 
life  at  all  in  comparison  with  his  duty,  and  had  no  idea  but  to 
spend  and  be  spent  in  the  service  of  his  Lord.     He  rose  at  day 
break,  and  went  to  bed  long  after  midnight ;  he  taught  the  class 
of  boys  from  nine  to  one  ;  he  looked  after  the  parish-school  and 
the  Sunday-school,  and  visited  the  poor  and  sick  most  faithfully  ; 
he  had  two  services  every  day,  and  preached  twice  on  Sunday, 
and  yet  he  felt  that  he  was  by  no  means  coming  up  to  his  ideal. 
With  these  views,  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  Doctor's  mode 
rate  counsels  fell  coldly  on  his  ear,  and  that  as  time  passed  on, 
he  came  less  and  less  frequently  to  him  for  direction  and  advice. 
It  was  very  natural,  the  Doctor  said  to  himself,  trying  to  reason 
away  the  pain  he  felt ;  it  was  very  natural ;  at  his  age  he  would 
no  doubt  have  done  the  same ;  newly  wedded  people  should  be 
left  to  themselves,  and  so  should  newly  wedded  flock  and  pastor. 
What  was  youth  without  self-confidence  ? — as  unnatural  as  age 
without  caution  and  timidity. 

Mr.  Brockhulst  was  a  very  good  teacher,  the  paternal  vestry 
men  soon  found  ;  the  boys  were  pushed  forward  very  rapidly, 
and  were  quite  enraptured  with  their  studies.  All  but  Julian, 
who  was  for  ever  in  difficulties,  and  about  whom  the  young 
clergyman  was  very  much  perplexed.  It  was  a  delicate  thing 
to  send  the  Rector's  grandson  home  every  week  with  a  bad 
report,  and  to  have  to  keep  him  in  four  days  out  of  five ;  but 


96  ST.  PHILIP'S  IN  NEW  HANDS. 

still  it  was  something  that  must  be  done,  and  the  Rector  had 
given  him  to  understand  lie  wished  no  difference  made  in  any  way. 

Upon  this  he  had  acted  strictly  at  first,  but  by-and-by  it 
came  to  lean  a  little  to  the  other  side  of  justice,  and  he  did 
make  a  difference  in  his  treatment  of  Julian ;  but  it  was  not  a 
difference  in  favor  of  Julian  or  in  deference  to  his  grand 
father's  high  station  in  the  church.  Julian  was  the  worst 
child  in  the  world,  by  great  odds,  but  that  was  no  reason  why 
his  occasional  lucid  intervals  should  be  overclouded  with  injus 
tice  and  something  that  had  a  little  the  look  of  persecution. 
He  was  unbearably  exasperating  about  little  things,  but  all 
his  crimes  were  not  capital,  and  it  was  not  calculated  to 
improve  him  to  have  them  treated  as  if  they  were ;  it  rather 
mixed  things  up  in  his  mind.  The  good  and  pure-minded 
young  parson  was  as  much  bewildered  and  horror-stricken 
as  was  Christine  at  the  boy's  depravity  ;  but  he  did  not  feel 
himself  at  liberty,  for  example's  sake,  to  treat  it  as  tenderly 
as  she  did,  and  so  he  got  into  the  way  of  treating  it  with 
greater  severity  than  the  occasion  required,  and  making  an  ex 
ample  of  him ;  and  being  made  an  example  of,  is  about  as 
unprofitable  a  course  as  any  child  can  be  subjected  to. 

But  soon  a  partner  came  to  share  the  honors  of  iniquity 
with  Julian  :  Harry  Gilmore  was  taken  from  the  district  school, 
where  he  was  not  doing  anything  but  tearing  his  trowsers  and 
scratching  names  on  his  desk,  to  become  a  member  of  Mr. 
Brockhulst's  class  of  boys,  and  to  be  educated  like  a  gentleman. 
The  miller  shook  his  head ;  he  had  been  shaking  it  steadily 
ever  since  the  class  had  been  formed,  and  the  idea  had  entered 
his  wife's  brain ;  he  had  been  firmer  about  it  than  about  any 
thing  else  he  had  ever  attempted  to  oppose  her  in  ;  but  in  the 
nature  of  things  heads  cannot  shake  for  ever,  and  sieges  must  be 
raised  some  time.  At  the  end  of  a  month  the  miller  gave  in, 
but  with  a  gloomy  and  unsatisfied  demeanor. 

"  Phoebe,  it's  the  first  wrong  step,"  he  said  ;  but  he  said  no 


ST.   PHILIP'S   IN   NEW   HANDS.  97 

more,  and  never  reproached  her  with  it  afterwards.  He  made 
no  demur  about  the  money,  although  the  mill  had  not  done 
very  well  that  year,  and  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  re 
trenched  than  expanded  at  just  that  point. 

Dr.  Upham,  when  he  had  heard  of  the  arrangement,  put  on 
his  hat  and  walked  down  to  the  miller's  house  to  see  if  it  were 
too  late  to  remonstrate  against  it.  But  it  was  ;  it  would  have 
been  too  late  a  month  ago ;  and  all  Mrs.  Gilmore's  pride  flamed 
up  to  resent  the  interference,  if  anything  so  delicate  and  pastoral 
could  be  called  an  interference. 

And  Harry  became  a  member  of  Mr.  Brockhulst's  class  of 
boys,  and  partner  in  especial  of  Julian  Upham  and  the  enemy 
of  peace. 


98          FIVE    MINUTES   TOO   LONG   AT  THE   GARDEN    GATE. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

FIVE  MINUTES  TOO  LONG  AT  THE  GARDEN  GATE. 

"  Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  Is  still  a-flying  : 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 
To-morrow  will  be  dying." 

HEBBIOK. 

"  WHAT  shall  you  wear,  do  you  think  ?"  asked  Madeline, 
sauntering  through  the  Parsonage  garden  late  in  the  afternoon 
with  her  now  dear  friend  Christine. 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  thought,"  said  Christine,  stooping  to  pick 
some  heliotrope  that  grew  beside  the  path.  "At  the  fair,  you 
mean  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  I  mean  that;  what  else  should  I  mean, 
when  I  haven't  been  talking  of  anything  else  for  the  last  hour? 
Though,  in  truth,  I  believe  you  haven't  been  hearing  a  word 
I've  said." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have,"  said  Christine,  faintly — though  in  truth  she 
had  been  very  absent,  and  her  face  had  a  slight  shade  on  it. 

"  I  never  saw  a  girl  who  thought  so  little  of  such  things," 
went  on  Madeline,  with  some  warmth.  "  I  sometimes  conclude 
we  haven't  anything  in  common.  What  is  it  makes  you  dif 
ferent  !  Do  you  think  it's  wrong  to  care  about  your  clothes  ?" 

"Why  no,  I  do  care  about  them.  I  always  notice  what 
other  people  wear,  and  want  to  look  as  well  myself;  you  know 
that,  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  making  an  effort  to  be  interested. 
"Now  tell  me  what  dress  you  mean  to  have  for  the  fair — you 
wear  your  bonnet,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Pourquoi  done  ?    To  rumple  my  hair  for  the  evening  ?  No, 


FIVE    MINUTES   TOO   LONG   AT  THE    GARDEN   GATE.         99 

indeed — Mrs.  Sherman  is  going  to  let  her  maid  dress  my  hair, 
and  I  shall  wear  my  claret-colored  organdie  and  the  garnet  set 
that  Raymond  sent  last  month.  I  tell  you  in  confidence,  I 
mean  to  make  an  end  of  little  Brockhulst ;  I  mean  to  put  him 
out  of  his  misery  ;  he  will  die  when  he  sees  me  in  those  garnets." 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  said  Christine,  with  a  little 
laugh,  tying  the  heliotrope  together. 

"  Oh,  ought  I?  Well,  I'm  not;  seriously,  Christine,  don't  you 
think  that  garnets  are  becoming,  to  people  of  my  tint,  you 
know  ?  Then  I've  an  idea  that  I  shall  take  Susie's  thread  lace 
shawl  (where's  the  use  of  a  married  sister  if  you  can't  use  her 
things  ?),  and  that  lovely  parasol  she  had  when  she  was  married ; 
she  hasn't  had  a  chance  to  use  it  half-a-dozen  times.  It's  well 
to  have  the  parasol  at  hand,  though  we  shan't  need  it  in  the 
tent  ;  but  I  don't  mean  to  stay  in  the  tent  all  the  time,  I  can 
assure  you.  I  mean  to  walk  with  Colonel  Steele  and  all  the 
others  through  the  grounds,  and  make  Brockhulst  go  quite 
insane  with  jealousy.  Poor  fellow  !  Christine,  ought  I  to  be 
ashamed  ?" 

'•  I  shall  not  tell  you  ;  you  like  to  be  scolded  about  him,  and 
it  only  seems  to  make  you  worse." 

"  Oh,  you  clever  creature,"  cried  Maddy,  with  a  coquettish 
laugh ;  "  I  absolutely  am  afraid  of  you,  you  see  through  people 
so.  It's  a  pity  we  are  to  have  the  same  table  at  the  fair ; 
it  will  make  me  uneasy  all  the  time  to  think  you  have  your 
eyes  upon  me.  But,  honestly,  don't  you  think  my  dress  will 
be  enchanting  ?  I  have  not  settled  on  the  color  of  my  gloves  ; 
that's  the  worst  feature  of  claret  for  a  dress,  it  is  so  hard  to 
find  a  pretty  shade  of  kid  to  go  with  it.  Pearl  would  have 
been  my  choice,  pearl  worked  with  claret,  but  I  doubt  if  I  can 
find  it ;  ah,  Christine,  if  I  could  have  my  gloves  from  Paris 
always  !  That's  my  dream,  you  know." 

"Well,  it's  evident  you  won't  realize  it  if  you  marry  Mr. 
Brockhulst." 


100        FIVE   MINUTES   TOO    LONG   AT  THE    GARDEN   GATE. 

"  Marry  Mr.  Brockhnlst !  Ob,  you  are  too  innocent  to  live. 
Fancy  me  the  parson's  wife,  presiding  at  the  Dorcas  in  pearl- 
colored  kid  gloves  and  garnets.  There !  there's  the  six  o'clock 
bell  for  prayers.  Run  in  and  get  your  bonnet,  and  we'll  go 
through  the  garden  way.  I'll  wait  for  you  here  at  the  gate." 

And  while  Christine  went  in  for  her  bonnet,  Madeline  waited 
for  her  at  the  gate  that  separated  the  churchyard  from  the 
Parsonage  garden.  The  honeysuckle  that  was  trained  above  it 
was  now  in  full  bloom,  and  the  gate  was  low  and  rather  of  the 
order  that  we  see  in  pictures ;  so  that,  as  the  young  minister 
came  slowly  and  thoughtfully  through  the  churchyard  towards 
the  vestry-room  door,  he  caught  sight  of  something  that 
"struck  a  bliss  on  all  the  day,"  that  made  him  forget  the 
schoolboys  and  the  forfeit  lessons  and  the  unwritten  ser 
mon  on  his  study-table.  Madeline  met  his  eye  half  timidly, 
half  brightly.  She  was  so  beautiful,  she  would  have  turned 
any  man's  head ;  and,  despite  her  saucy  raillery,  she  had  a  little 
sentiment  about  the  young  divine  which  gave  her  a  softness 
that  she  lacked  with  others. 

He  came  towards  her  quickly  and  took  her  hand,  the  hand 
that  had  rested  on  the  gate ;  the  other  was  occupied  with  hold 
ing  her  fringed  parasol  between  her  and  just  one  stray  gleam  of 
sunshine  that  was  finding  its  way  down  through  the  honey 
suckle. 

"  You  are  coming  in  to  prayers  ?"  he  said,  not  knowing  ex 
actly  what  he  said  though,  as  he  touched  her  ungloved  hand. 

"  In  a  moment,"  she  said,  caring  very  little  what  he  talked 
about,  as  long  as  he  stayed  there  at  the  gate  till  Christine 
came. 

In  fact  they  were  just  where  words  are  only  useful  to  con 
ceal  thoughts,  not  to  expound  them. 

"  you  were  not  at  prayers  this  morning." 

"  Oh,  no.  It  rained,  you  know,  and  mamma  would  not  let  me 
come.  Mamma  is  such  a  tyrant." 


FIVE   MINUTES   TOO   LONG   AT  THE   GARDEN   GATE.        101 

The  bell  began  to  toll ;  in  a  moment  more  he  would  have  to 
go,  and  Madeline  resolved  he  should  not,  till  Christine  came 
back;  she  was  very  jealous  of  her  power  to  please  him;  besides, 
the  minutes  she  passed  with  him  were  sweeter  than  ordinary 
minutes,  there  was  not  any  doubt,  so  she  profited  by  a  happy 
accident  and  exclaimed : 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Brockhulst !  look  at  my  parasol — how  shall  I  get 
it  out  ?"  For  she  had  been  rather  trifling  with  her  parasol 
since  Mr.  Brockhulst  came  up,  and  the  interests  of  the  fringe 
had  suffered.  There  was  a  sweetbrier  growing  in  the  hedge 
and  mixing  itself  up  with  the  honeysuckle  by  the  latch,  and  in 
this  the  fringe  had  caught.  Mr.  Brockhulst  leaned  over  it ;  so 
did  Madeline.  Mr.  Brockhulst's  hands  shook  a  little ;  Made 
line's  finger  got  pricked  with  a  brier  and  bled  a  drop  of  crim 
son  blood,  at  sight  of  which  Mr.  Brockhulst  forgot  the  parasol 
and  the  fringe,  and  wrapped  the  delicate  hand  in  his  own  deli 
cate  cambric  handkerchief,  and  bent  down  agitatedly  over  it, 
and  then  the  bell  stopped. 

Madeline  heard  it,  but  he  did  not ;  and  with  a  wicked  feeling 
of  triumph  she  went  on  talking  foolishly  and  prettily  about  her 
finger,  and  admitting  that  it  hurt  her,  when  it  did  not  in 
the  least,  and  telling  him  not  to  mind,  it  would  be  better  in  a 
minute. 

"  There,  there,  my  parasol — oh,  look  after  that !"  she  said,  a 
little  frightened,  as  Christine  came  running  down  the  path,  and 
as  she  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Van  Riper  standing  immovable  on 
the  church  steps  and  watching  them. 

"  Why,"  said  Christine,  "  why  do  you  wait  for  me,  Maddy  ? 
Julian  kept  me.  It  is  five  minutes  past  the  hour ;  the  bell 
has  stopped — so  long — oh,  Mr.  Brockhulst !  I  did  not  see  you." 

Mr.  Brockhulst  at  her  words  had  started  up — the  color  left 
his  face ;  he  looked  like  a  person  who  had  received  some  sud 
den  intelligence  of  evil.  With  a  hurried  bow  he  left  them 
and  went  directly  to  the  vestry-room  door. 


102        FIVE    MINUTES   TOO    LONG   AT   THE    GARDEX    GATE. 

Madeline,  though  she  did  not  understand  the  full  extent  of 
the  self-reproach  he  felt,  understood  enough  to  feel  uncom 
fortable,  and  to  wish  she  had  not  kept  him.  But  after  all, 
what  was  it  ?  Five  minutes,  that  was  all,  and  not  a  dozen 
people  waiting  for  him  in  the  church.  No  one  would  have 
ever  known  if  that  horrid  woman  had  not  seen  them  at  the 
gate. 

Yes,  it  was  only  five  minutes  ;  but  the  young  minister  felt,  as 
he  walked  into  the  chancel  with  a  hurried  step,  that  months  of 
penance  could  not  make  up  for  it ;  in  his  eyes  it  seemed  the 
blackest  sin  he  ever  had  been  guilty  of;  a  neglect  of  duty,  a 
carelessness  in  God's  service,  a  desecration  of  holy  hours,  an 
indulgence  in  unholy  thoughts  perfectly  monstrous  and  appall 
ing.  His  face  was  bloodless ;  his  voice  shook  as  he  turned  to 
address  his  people.  That  little  vanity  of  Madeline's  cost  him 
bitter  misery  of  spirit. 

"Oh,  Christine !"  she  whispered,  clutching  Christine's  arm 
as  they  hurried  into  church,  "  what  do  you  think  the  Bishop 
will  do  about  it?  How  long  do  you  suppose  she  had  been 
glaring  at  us  from  the  steps  ?  I  vow  I  am  terrified  to  death.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  she  got  them  to  depose  him." 

The  Bishop  read  her  responses  in  a  terribly  severe  tone  that 
evening,  and  her  eyes  had  a  very  stony,  unprepossessing  look, 
as  she  fixed  them  on  the  minister  during  the  reading  of  the 
lessons.  He  faltered  as  he  met  them  more  than  once,  and  all 
the  congregation  could  not  fail  to  see  that  for  some  cause  he 
was  in  a  state  of  agitation.  Madeline  really  was  uncomfortable  ; 
she  lingered  at  the  church  door  with  Christine  for  some  minutes 
after  service,  hoping  for  a  word  with  him  in  passing  out — a  word 
that  would  make  him  feel  the  insignificance  of  the  Bishop's 
wrath  compared  with  the  potency  of  her  smiles;  but  she  was 
disappointed. 

He  passed  them  quickly  with  the  stiffest  bow ;  and  for  ten 
days  she  was  denied  the  chance  of  exchanging  a  look,  much  less 


FIVE   MINUTES    TOO    LONG    AT   THE    GARDEN    GATE.         103 

a  word  with  him.  He  never  came  near  their  cottage,  and  at  the 
Hill  avoided  her  with  a  most  practical  perseverance.  At  church 
his  eye  never  fell  by  any  chance  upon  her,  and  in  the  street  he 
did  not  see  her.  Madeline  came  to  the  Parsonage  every  day  and 
talked  with  Christine  about  it,  laughing  at  him,  bemoaning  the 
withdrawal  of  his  favor,  and  wondering  what  it  meant. 

In  truth  she  was  rather  restless  and  petulant  at  home  just 
then,  and  might  as  well  be  talking  nonsense  with  Christine 
about  her  lovers  as  trying  to  do  anything  sensible  for  her  mother, 
for  she  did  not,  or  could  not,  persevere  in  any  work  above  an 
hour,  and  invariably  spoiled  everything  she  undertook. 

"  In  truth,  Madeline,"  said  her  mother  sternly,  "  I  do  not 
think  this  getting  up  for  prayers  at  six  o'clock  agrees  with 
you." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  said  Madeline,  "  at  all ;  it's  this  horrid  August 
weather ;  it  makes  me  good  for  nothing." 

It  was  the  middle  of  August,  and  the  weather  certainly  was 
very  warm. 


104  THE   FAIR. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE    FAIR. 

"  Her  only  labour  is  to  kill  the  time ; 
And  labour  dire  it  is,  and  weary  wo." 

THOMSON. 

THE  fair  bad  for  its  remote'  object,  tbe  purchase  of  an  organ ; 
for  its  immediate  intention,  the  gratification  of  Mrs.  Sherman's 
energy,  and  the  amusement  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  congre 
gation.  It  was  not  to  be  a  commonplace,  unambitious  affair, 
held  in  a  public  hall  or  vacant  house  or  Sunday-school,  presided 
over  by  spinsters  and  superintendents ;  but  was  to  be  more  on 
the  order  of  a  fete  champetre,  a  full-dress  entertainment,  only 
enduring  the  length  of  one  summer  afternoon,  and  to  be  termi 
nated  by  a  little  party  for  the  young  ladies  interested,  at  the 
Hill  in  the  evening. 

The  tent  was  erected  in  a  beautiful  though  distant  part  of  the 
Sherman  grounds ;  the  Sherman  servants  were  in  attendance ;  the 
Sherman  carriage  had  been  driving  about  the  town  all  day  for 
the  convenience  of  everybody  concerned  in  it;  the  Sherman 
cuisine  furnished  the  greater  part  of  the  refreshments,  and 
Sherman  money  paid  for  most  of  the  articles  made  and  sold  ; 
it  was  pretty  clear,  upon  reflection,  that  the  Sherman  pocket 
would  have  suffered  less  if  the  orgjin  to  be  purchased  had  beeu 
a  Sherman  present  out  and  out — only  Mrs.  Sherman  would 
have  missed  the  occupation. 

It  is  a  pretty  well  established  fact  that  the  young  men  of  this 
generation  are  averse  to  fairs,  that  they  turn  their  backs  upon 
them  to  a  man,  that  they  will  resort  to  dishonorable  stratagems 


THE   PAIR.  105 

to  avoid  attending  them.  But  it  so  happened  that  Mrs.  Sher 
man  had  a  number  of  young  men  at  call  who  did  not  dare  to 
refuse  her  invitation,  who  were  indebted  to  her  for  so  much 
hospitality  that  they  could  not  with  any  decency  be  engaged 
in  any  other  way  when  the  day  for  her  fair  came  round.  So  it 
happened  that  the  three  o'clock  train  brought  up  half-a-dozen 
"  men  in  uniform,"  and  three  or  four  black  coats ;  and  that  at 
four  o'clock,  when  dined,  refreshed,  and  dressed,  they  walked 
down  from  the  house  to  the  picturesque  and  decorated  tent, 
there  was  tumultuous  fluttering  in  the  hearts  of  the  young  ladies 
in  it. 

There  were  a  good   many  pretty   faces   in ;  the  tent 

just  then,  indeed,  was  a  perfect  rosebud  garden  of  girls,  but  of 
them  all  the  minister's  little  daughter  was  again  the  prettiest. 
Madeline,  indeed,  had  realized  her  dream  in  the  matter  of  her 
toilette ;  she  was  faultlessly  dressed,  and  strikingly  beautiful  in 
face  and  figure.  But  Christine's  was  something  more  pic 
turesque  than  good  style,  something  more  touching  than  mere 
beauty.  She  wore  a  dress  and  mantilla  of  white  barege,  a  very 
fresh  and  light  and  pure  material,  and  a  round  hat  of  the 
whitest  straw,  bound  with  light-green  velvet,  and  with  a  long 
green  feather  drooping  over  her  waving  auburn  hair,  smoothed 
and  braided  low  on  her  neck  behind.  She  wore  the  malachite 
ornaments,  heavy  earrings,  and  bracelets  that  one  might  fancy 
of  the  sort  Isaac  sent  to  Rebecca  by  the  hands  of  his  faithful 
steward.  Her  mantilla  was  fastened  low  on  her  shoulders  by 
pins  to  match,  and  her  shoulders  were  exquisite  through  the 
transparent  texture  of  her  dress.  The  faint  pink  was  deepening 
gradually  on  her  cheeks,  but  it  never  grew  too  deep  for  the 
delicate  character  of  her  beauty. 

Mrs.  Sherman  had  done  well  to  place  these  young  girls 
together ;  a  sight  of  the  two  side  by  side  was  quite  worth  the 
admittance-fee  and  all  the  subsequent  extortions.  The  table  of 
which  they  had  charge  was  the  most  prominent  and  best 

5* 


106  THE   PAIE. 

situated  in  the  tent.  Christine  had  flowers  and  bon-bons  to 
dispose  of,  and  Madeline  told  fortunes  and  kept  a  sort  of  post- 
office.  Flowers  and  bon-bons  consequently  were  in  high  de 
mand,  and  the  post-office  was  besieged  by  gentlemen.  Madeline's 
eyes  were  gleaming  with  triumph ;  she  had  taken  in  more 
money  than  any  one  else  in  the  tent,  and  the  other  young 
ladies  were  throwing  envious  glances  at  her  from  behind  their 
unbesieged  tables. 

At  about  five  o'clock  Dr.  Catherwood  came  in ;  Christine 
saw  him  enter,  and  watched  him  as  well  as  she  could  from  the 
demands  upon  her  attention,  as  he  made  his  way  up  towards 
them.  Very  slowly,  however.  He  went  to  every  other  stall 
first,  and  then  Mrs.  Sherman  seized  upon  him,  and  for  half  an 
hour  at  least  she  walked  about  leaning  on  his  arm  and  making 
him  buy  everything  that  seemed  to  hang  fire  at  all.  She  could 
not  have  found  an  easier  victim,  nor  one  who  submitted  with  a 
better  grace.  She  released  him  at  last,  however,  and  then  he 
made  his  way  up  to  the  table  where  the  flowers  and  bon-bons 
were  dispensed. 

At  the  moment  that  he  reached  it,  Colonel  Steele,  at  Christine's 
right  hand,  was  helping  her  to  make  change  for  a  young  officer 
who  had  been  buying  bon-bons  and  bouquets  the  whole  after 
noon  ;  and  a  little  below  them,  before  the  table,  Mr.  Leslie  was 
trying  to  make  up  his  mind  between  two  boxes  of  confectionery 
and  particularly  anxious  for  Miss  Upham's  judgment  and  advice. 

"  Oh,  how  late  you  are  !  I  thought  you  were  not  coming," 
she  said,  as  Dr.  Catherwood  came  up  beside  her.  Her  face  had 
a  radiance  of  welcome  on  it,  too,  and  Colonel  Steele  looked  on 
perplexed.  She  seemed  so  innocently  relieved  and  happy  at  the 
sight  of  him,  one  would  have  said  she  was  welcoming  a  brother 
or  a  father.  Yet  Dr.  Catherwood  was  not  exactly  the  sort  of 
man  for  a  pretty  girl  to. welcome  as  a  father  or  a  brother.  The 
doctor  looked  handsome  that  day,  remarkably  handsome,  even 
among  the  younger  and  more  dashing  men  about  him  ;  and  ho 


THE    FAIR.  107 

had  that  even,  thoughtful  mariner,  that  Colonel  Steele  was  well 
aware  all  women  most  admire.  Christine  evidently  was  much 
better  pleased  to  have  him  by  her,  quiet  as  he  was,  than  any  of 
the  others,  devoted  as  they  had  been,  and  yet  her  manner  was 
anything  but  that  of  a  coquette,  though  her  words  and  tone 
had  been  those  of  one. 

Madeline  would  have  said  exactly  what  sh«  did :  "  Oh,  how 
late  you  are;  I  thought  you  were  not  coming!" — but  she  would 
have  said  it  with  a  flash  of  her  eyes,  and  in  a  tone  so  low  no 
one  else  could  possibly  have  heard.  Christine  said  it  in  a  low 
tone,  too,  because  her  voice  was  naturally  low,  but  so  that 
Colonel  Steele  heard  it  distinctly,  and  with  a  simplicity  of  expres 
sion  that  all  the  world  could  have  seen  if  they  had  wanted  to. 

"There  is  a  bouquet  I  have  been  saving  for  you  all  the 
afternoon,"  she  said,  giving  him  one.  "Everybody  has  been 
wanting  it,  though  it  is  so  little." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Upham !  when  I  made  you  such  an  unheard-of 
offer  for  it !  That  is  what  I  call  simony ;  you  have  defrauded 
the  Church,  let  me  tell  you ;  Catherwood  will  not  give  you  half 
as  much,"  said  Colonel  Steele. 

"  Oh,  you  will,  Dr.  Catherwood,  won't  you  ?  Just  as  much 
as  ever  I  ask  you  ?" 

"  Just  as  much  as  ever  you  ask  me,  Miss  Christine,"  he  said, 
taking  out  his  purse  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  you  to  pay  me  now,"  she  said  laughing. 
"  You  must  help  me  count  up  all  my  gains  to-night,  and  if  I 
come  out  very  much  below  Madeline,  you  shall  pay  a  whole 
fortune  for  the  flowers.  Madeline  will  outdo  me,  though,  I  am 
very  much  afraid." 

"  Miss  Clybourne  is  more  enterprising." 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  is.  There,  Dr.  Catherwood,  see,  she  is 
beckoning  to  you.  That's  just  the  way  she  does.  She  has  a 
letter  for  you,  I  suppose.  Do  not  stay  though  ;  it  isn't  fair  in 
her." 


108  THE    FAIR. 

"  No,  I  assure  you  I  will  not  stay,"  he  said,  moving  away 
slowly  towards  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

Colonel  Steele  looked  after  him  with  some  curiosity.  Here  was 
a  man  in  demand  among  young  ladies,  evidently,  and  yet  what 
had  he  done  to  make  them  like  him?  He  did  not  pay  them 
compliments ;  he  did  not  have  the  appearance  of  any  special 
devotion  to  theifl ;  he  only  looked  handsome  and  thoughtful, 
and  as  if  he  understood  them  through  and  through. 

"  It  takes  very  little  to  please  the  pretty  creatures,"  thought 
the  Colonel,  with  a  shrug ;  yet  he  thought  gloomily,  that  little 
was  a  natural  gift,  and  all  men  could  not  gain  it,  however 
strongly  they  might  ambition  it.  He  called  Dr.  Catherwood  his 
old  friend,  and  yet  in  truth  they  knew  each  other  very  slightly. 
They  had  travelled  together  at  different  times,  had  done  each 
other  various  favors  in  various  little  ways,  but  had  never  got 
beyond  an  easy  cordial  acquaintance.  Perhaps  the  reserve 
was  more  on  Dr.  Catherwood's  part  than  on  his,  but  he  had 
never  had  any  object  in  penetrating  it,  and  had  been  content 
to  remain  just  where  he  was  till  now. 

The  fact  was,  Colonel  Steele  was  a  good  deal  taken  with  the 
Minister's  daughter,  and  everything  and  every  one  of  interest  to 
her  now  became  of  interest  to  him  ;  and  he  resolved  to  know 
how  much  she  liked  Dr.  Catherwood,  and  in  what  way  she 
liked  him.  To  which  end  he  said,  sitting  down  beside  her 
behind  the  table  during  a  few  moments  of  quiet : 

"  So  you  are  going  to  take  Dr.  Catherwood  as  your  account 
ant,  and  not  me  ?  I  own  I  had  hoped  you  placed  confidence 
enough  in  me  to  have  allowed  me  the  pleasure  of  settling  your 
accounts  for  you,  and  bringing  you  out  superior  to  Miss  Cly- 
bourne.  But  I  see  my  friend  the  Doctor  has  inspired  you 
with  more  faith.  What  can  the  reason  be,  I  wonder  ?" 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  known  Dr.  Catherwood  so  much  longer, 
you  see,"  said  Christine,  lightly,  snapping  backward  and  for 
ward  the  key  in  the  little  box  which  contained  the  money. 


THE   FAIR.  109 

"  So  much  longer  ?"  repeated  Colonel  Steele ;  "  how  much 
longer,  pray  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  known  Dr.  Catherwood  since — since  last  Decem 
ber — yes — the  twelfth  of  last  December." 

"  And  me  since  June — last  June — but  you  don't  remember 
the  date,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  It  was  the  eighteenth,  at  Mrs.  Sherman's 
party — I  remember  the  date  perfectly — I  have  it  written  on 
the  bouquet  I  carried  that  night.  It  was  my  first  party  and 
my  first  bouquet,  and  I  could  not  throw  it  away." 

Colonel  Steele  happened  to  know  who  had  given  her  the 
bouquet,  and  he  did  not  feel  particularly  encouraged  at  the 
keenness  of  her  recollection. 

"  And  yet  Dr.  Catherwood  was  away  all  last  winter.  He  has 
told  me  he  stayed  till  May  at  his  plantation.  Now,  I  don't  see 
that  he  has  much  the  advantage  of  me,  in  point  of  time  at  least. 
You  really  have  not  seen  so  much  more  of  him  after  all.  What 
can  you  possibly  know  of  his  character,  now,  Miss  Upham  ?  I 
am  in  earnest,  I  think  he  is  almost  a  stranger  to  you." 

"Dr.  Catherwood  began  by  doing  me  the  greatest  kindness 
any  one  could  possibly  haye  done  me,"  said  Christine,  in  an 
earnest  voice — "  and  he  is  papa's  friend,  and  Julian's,  and  I 
should  be  most  ungrateful  if  I  did  not  consider  him  my  best 
friend,  too." 

Colonel  Steele  bit  his  lip.  It  is  so  hard  to  know  how  to  get 
along  with  a  girl  in  society  who  will  persist  in  speaking  sin 
cerity  and  truth.  Badinage  and  nonsense  are  in  so  much  bet 
ter  taste.  But  somehow  it  suited  this  young  person  ;  it  was 
quite  becoming  to  her,  though  it  made  her  awkward  to  deal 
with  sometimes ;  one  did  not  expect  her  to  be  coquettish  or  to 
say  extravagant  and  unreal  things,  as  one  expects  others  of  her 
age  to  do  ;  though  her  laughter  was  as  merry  and  her  sense  of 
humor  quite  as  keen  as  that  of  any  other  person.  It  was  this 
very  difference  from  others  that  had  fascinated  the  worldly- 


110  THE   FAIR. 

wise  Colonel,  though  he  felt  so  much  like  complaining  of  it 
now. 

People  are  very  apt  to  be  unjust  when  they  are  in  love,  and 
the  worldly-wise  Colonel  was  a  good  deal  in  love  ;  enough  so  to 
walk  away  with  a  very  jealous  coldness  when  Dr.  Catherwood 
came  back  from  his  little  flirtation  with  Miss  Clybourne. 

"  Well,"  said  Christine,  with  a  very  pretty  look  of  interest  in 
her  face  as  he  sat  down  beside  her,  "  did  she  tell  your  fortune 
for  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  gave  me  three  or  four  letters,  too.  In  fact,  she 
made  a  great  deal  of  money  out  of  me.  I  shall  have  to  buy 
up  all  that  is  left  upon  your  table  to  make  it  even  ;  all  your 
bon-bons  are  not  gone  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Christine,  with  an  ennuye  look ; 
"  I  am  so  tired  of  money — I  have  talked  of  it  all  the  afternoon. 
I'm  very  glad  I'm  not  a  man,  to  have  to  talk  of  it  all  day." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have  much  financial  ability,"  said  her 
companion,  taking  the  box  of  money  from  her  ;  "  and  I  see  you 
are  beginning  to  look  pale.  I  am  going  to  take  you  out  of  this 
noisy  tent  for  sanitary  reasons,  and  install  little  Miss  Richfield 
here  instead,  at  least  for  half  an  hour ;  Mrs.  Sherman  cannot 
object  to  that." 

"I  am  afraid  she  will,"  said  Christine,  with  a  longing  look 
out  into  the  grounds.  "The  whole  affair  ends  a  little  before 
eight,  and  it  is  almost  seven  now ;  it  will  not  do  for  me  to  go." 

"  It  will  not  do  for  you  to  stay,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  getting 
up.  "  What's  the  younger  Miss  Richfield's  name — Caroline  ?" 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Catherwood — stay — I  am  afraid  she  will  not  like 
it — she  may  be  tired,  too." 

"  Nothing  will  give  her  greater  pleasure,  I  am  positive,"  said 
he,  sedately,  going  towards  the  Richfield  table. 

Christine  looked  after  him  rather  nervously  ;  he  went  up  to 
the  little  Miss  Richfield  and  said  something  that  made  her 
blush  and  look  very  bright,  go  towards  her  elder  sister,  hold 


THE   FAIR.  Ill 

an  explanatory  whisper  with  her,  and  then  follow  Dr.  Gather- 
wood  towards  the  bon-bon  table. 

The  fact  was,  little  Miss  Caroline  had  been  standing  behind 
her  pincushions,  socks,  sacks,  and  baby-bait  all  the  afternoon, 
and  had  not  had  a  nibble,  and  she  was  delighted  to  leave  them 
in  charge  of  her  older  sister,  and  go  off  towards  a  more  distin 
guished  quarter  of  the  tent,  where  were  officers  and  city  gentle 
men  and  a  general  look  of  high  life  and  conviviality. 

The  Richfields  were  pillars  of  the  Church,  but  extremely 
plain  and  humdrum  in  their  manner  of  life,  and  the  younger 
members  of  the  family  were  perfectly  dazzled  by  the  glories  of 
the  Hill.  Dr.  Catherwood  installed  Miss  Caroline  in  Chris 
tine's  place,  having  laid  hands,  in  passing,  on  an  unemployed 
young  officer,  and  done  him  the  favor  to  introduce  him  to  Miss 
Caroline,  and  commit  the  care  of  the  money-box  to  him ;  all  of 
which  made  Miss  Caroline  feel  that  the  world  was  a  most  intoxi 
cating  place,  and  that  the  crisis  of  her  life  had  come. 

"  How  well  you  managed  it,"  said  Christine,  as  she  followed 
Dr.  Catherwood  through  the  crowd  to  the  entrance  of  the  tent ; 
"  I  think  you  always  do  as  you  want  to  do  with  people,  though 
you  are  so  very  quiet." 

"  And  yet  you  never  are  willing  to  trust  to  me  to  accomplish 
anything ;  do  you  know  that,  my  dear  Miss  Upham  ?" 

"  Miss  Upham  !  Oh,  does  not  that  sound  droll !  I  could  al 
most  fancy  I  had  Colonel  Steele's  arm  instead  of  Dr.  Gather- 
wood's." 

"  If  the  fancy  pleases  you,  I  could  easily  manage  to  make  it 
a  reality.  You  have  only  to  say  so,  you  know,"  said  Dr.  Ca 
therwood,  pausing  as  they  were  turning  into  a  diverging 
path. 

" Oh,  je  vous  en  prie"  cried  Christine,  with  a  little  shudder, 
clasping  her  left  hand  in  her  right  one  on  his  arm,  and  moving 
forward. 

"  Oh,  then,  I    will   do   as  well   for   the  moment,"  said  Dr. 


112  TUB   FAIR. 

Catherwood,  with  a  satisfied  little  smile,  as  they  went  on  into 
the  path. 

"  Yes,  for  the  moment,  and  the  hour,  and  the  day,  and  the 
always,"  said  the  childish  beauty,  forgetting  to  unclasp  her 
hands,  which  looked  exquisitely  white  upon  his  sleeve.  "  Oh, 
Dr.  Catherwood,  how  tired  I  do  get  of  strangers.  How  do  you 
manage  to  be  so  pleasant  to  everybody  ?  Sometimes  I  think 
it  does  not  make  much  difference  to  you,  really,  who  is  talking 
to  you.  Do  you  know,  if  it  were  not  you,  I  should  think  it 
was  something  a  little  like  hypocrisy  ?" 

"  Let  me  explain,"  said  he,  with  a  half-serious  smile.  "  What 
would  become  of  me,  do  you  think,  if  I  went  through  the  world 
with  my  soul  in  my  eyes,  as  you  go  ?  It  is  a  questionable  e'x- 
periment  for  a  woman  ;  but  for  a  man,  believe  me,  it  would  be 
an  unwise  and  dangerous  business.  Why,  think  of  all  that 
meets  a  man ;  the  deceit,  the  folly,  the  enmity,  and  the  flat 
tery;  his  only  protection  is  to  see  without  seeming  to  see;  to 
feel  without  evincing  feeling.  He  need  not  be  a  hypocrite, 
Christine,  because  he  keeps  his  visor  down.  You  know  you 
would  not  think  him  wise  if  he  went  into  the  fight  without  it." 

"  But  it  need  not  be  a  visor  of  smiles — smiles  for  everybody." 

"  I  pity  the  man  who  would  go  through  the  world  with  stern 
looks  for  everybody.  His  heart  would  not  be  in  the  right 
place,  Christine,  I  think.  Little  children,  women,  sufferers,  and 
even  men  who  are  trying  to  get  the  better  of  him — all  are  ob 
jects  of  benevolence  to  a  man  who  has  a  Christian  soul  within 
him.  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  for  stern  looks." 

"  Oh,  that  is  not  what  I  mean  :  benevolence  is  all  very  well ; 
but  I  don't  see  why  you  need  look  just  alike  for  everybody — 
why  you  need  look  just  the  same  when  you  talk  to  little  Miss 
Richfield,  who  isn't  your  friend,  as  when  you  talk  to  me,  who  am." 

"  Now,  I  leave  it  to — to  the  acacias  that  are  above  us  both,  if 
I  looked  anything  as  I  look  now  when  I  talked  to  the  little 
Richfield." 


THE   PAIR.  113 

They  had  been  walking  through  a  winding,  well-kept  path 
that  led  through  a  grove  of  acacias  at  the  extreme  border  of  the 
Sherman  grounds ;  a  little  knoll  rising  at  the  right  was 
crowned  with  a  rustic  summer-house  ;  just  as  they  paused  be 
fore  it,  Christine  turned,  laughing,  and  looked  up  in  his  face. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  truth  compels  me  to  state,  I  do  not  think 
you  did." 

Her  companion's  eyes  were  blue ;  eyes  that  grew  tender  and 
full  of  light  only  rarely.  Christine  had  never  before  seen  them 
wear  exactly  that  expression. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  sudden  rustle  in  the  shrubbery 
beside  them ;  some  one  darted  across  the  path  and  disappeared 
into  the  bushes  opposite.  It  was  Julian  Upham,  with  Harry 
Gilmore  in  hot  chase. 

"  Oh,  there  will  be  some  trouble !"  exclaimed  Christine,  let 
ting  go  her  companion's  arm,  and  starting  a  step  forward 
"What  shall  I  do  !" 

"  I  will  go  after  them,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  with  a  contrac 
tion  of  the  brow,  "  and  bring  him  back.  Don't  be  anxious  at 
all.  I  will  send  Harry  home,  and  bring  Julian  here  with  me, 
if  you  wish  it." 

"  I  wish  you'd  let  me  go  with  you,"  she  said,  earnestly ;  "  I 
don't  want  to  go  back  to  the  tent  yet,  and  they  haven't  proba 
bly  gone  beyond  the  mill." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are  not  afraid  of  injuring  your 
dress,  come  with  me ;"  and  he  led  the  way  across  the  shrub 
bery  into  the  fields  that  led  directly  to  the  mill. 


114  THE   END    OF   IIAEEY's   HOLIDAY. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    END    OF    HARRY'S    HOLIDAY. 

"  It  Is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity." 

WORDSWORTH. 

THE  evening  was  lovely,  and  perhaps  the  transition  from  the 
gay  and  noisy  scene  they  had  just  left  made  the  quiet  more 
beautiful  and  noticeable  than  ordinary  to  Christine  and  her 
companion.  The  sun  had  been  gone  about  fifteen  minutes  from 
the  sky,  which  it  had  left  all  of  a  clear,  golden  color  in  the 
west,  and  all  a  pale-blue  in  the  south,  growing  faintly  pink  in 
the  distant  east.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind ;  the  mill- 
wheel  was  silent,  and  the  mill-stream  along  which  they  were 
walking  was  fair  and  tranquil  "  as  the  river  of  a  dream." 

They  had  come  to  look  for  Julian,  to  be  sure,  but  they  were 
not  walking  very  fast.  Occasionally  Dr.  Catherwood  stopped 
and  listened  for  the  boys'  voices,  but  he  could  hear  nothing  ; 
and  occasionally  Christine  called  Julian's  name,  but  elicited  no 
response. 

"They  may  have  gone  down  to  the  miller's  house,"  he  said, 
looking  that  way.  "You  had  better  wait  here  by  the  dam 
while  I  go  and  see." 

The  miller's  house  lay  down  in  a  sort  of  meadow,  below  the 
level  of  the  mill-pond,  and  Christine  sat  down  upon  the  bridge, 
while  her  companion  went  off  in  the  direction  of  it.  He 
walked  a  good  deal  quicker  after  he  left  her,  but  it  was  some 
minutes  before  he  reached  the  gate ;  and  when  he  was  out  of 


THE    END    OF    H AERY'S    HOLIDAY.  115 

sight  she  turned  and  looked  at  the  old  mill,  with  its  great  wheel 
and  open  doors,  and  thought  of  the  night  when  she  had  looked 
at  them  in  a  trance  of  terror,  calling  Julian's  name  across  the 
ice.  How  long  ago  that  night  seemed  ! — what  changes  and 
trials  in  her  care  of  Julian !  Sometimes  she  reproached  her 
self  for  feeling  the  burden  so  much  less  than  formerly,  though 
4t  was  still  the  occupation  and  duty  of  her  life ;  she  did  not 
^understand  how  it  had  come  to  pass  that  so  much  of  it  had 
gone  on  Dr.  Catherwood  ;  that  he  in  her  place  was  bearing  now 
so  much  the  heavier  part  of  the  responsibility.  She  could  not 
have  had  it  otherwise  if  she  had  chosen  ;  it  was  Dr.  Gather- 
wood's  way  to  do  as  he  thought  fit.  But  how  could  she  have 
lived  without  him — how  have  sustained  this  weight  upon  her 
conscience,  if  he  had  not  helped  her  to  see  things  right,  with 
his  clear  man's  sense,  and  made  her  willing  to  come  to  him  in 
all  the  thousand  little  troubles  out  of  which  she  could  not  find 
her  way  alone. 

With  her  father  it  would  have  been  almost  impossible  to  have 
done  so  ;  he  could  not  quite  have  understood  her,  and  could  not 
probably  have  made  her  understand  him  ;  she  would  have 
known  she  was  distressing  him  by  her  scruples  and  alarms,  and 
would  soon  have  learned  to  keep  them  to  herself.  But  with 
Doctor  Catherwood  it  was  so  different ;  she  had  hardly  to  tell 
him  what  she  was  feeling ;  he  understood  it  all  before  she  had 
found  the  words  for  it ;  if  it  were  only  a  conscientious  scruple, 
an  alarm  lest  she  had  neglected  some  duty  towards  the  boy,  he 
had  no  contempt  for  it,  no  impatience  with  the  weakness,  but 
he  made  her  see  it  was  a  weakness,  and  gave  her,  while  he 
soothed  her,  steadiness  and  strength  to  combat  such  feelings  in 
the  future.  If  it  were  some  trouble  that  was  tangible,  some  one 
of  the  thousand  mischiefs  and  misfortunes  into  which  the  boy 
was  continually  dragging  himself  and  her,  he  only  heard  it 
quietly,  without  showing  a  shade  of  annoyance  or  surprise,  and 
said  : 


116  THB   END   OF   HARBY'S   HOLIDAY. 

"  Leave  it  to  rae,  there  is  no  need  of  saying  anything  to  Dr. 
Uphain  ;  I  will  see  to  it,  and  talk  to  Julian." 

The  tie  between  them  in  that  way  had  become  a  very  close 
one ;  confidences  about  Julian  naturally  led  to  confidences  in 
which  he  was  but  little  mingled ;  and  Dr.  Catherwood  had  read 
every  ^page  of  the  girl's  pure  heart,  and  measured  the  daily 
growth  of  her  young  mind,  before  he  had  been  her  constant 
companion  for  a  month.  He  never  allowed  her  to  feel  it  was 
unnatural  and  strange  for  them  to  be  upon  the  terms  they  were ; 
he  never  made  the  relations  between  them  so  apparent  to  the 
world,  that  the  world  would  catechize  her  in  regard  to  them. 
He  dreaded  jealously  the  first  words  that  should  wake  a  mis 
giving  in  her  mind,  and  for  that  reason  he  felt  Mrs.  Sherman  to 
be  his  greatest  foe. 

The  companionship  of  this  young  girl,  just  now,  was  worth 
more  to  him  than  the  friendship,  and  honor,  and  adulation  of 
all  the  world  ;  the  mind  requires  such  different  medicine  at 
different  times  ;  and  as  to  Christine,  though  but  a  moment  ago 
she  had  talked  earnestly  to  Colonel  Steele  about  her  gratitude 
to  Dr.  Catherwood,  she  rarely  felt  the  burden  of  it ;  rarely 
realized  that  he  was  giving  up  time,  and  thought,  and  comfort 
for  her  constantly;  and  never  reflected  that  he  was  in  truth 
standing  to  her  in  an  attitude  of  protection  and  surveillance 
that  only  the  tie  of  family  can  render  wise  and  safe. 

He  knew  every  page  of  her  heart — every  page,  that  is,  but 
one — and  that  was  one  that  she  never  turned  back  to  herself; 
it  was  the  initial  page  of  her  life's  history,  and  was  reflected  in 
every  succeeding  one ;  she  knew  it  word  for  word,  but  she 
never  dared  to  dwell  upon  it,  never  opened  it  and  re-read  and 
reflected  on  it.  Her  sister's  death-bed  scene  was  still  most 
vivid  and  most  painful  in  her  recollection  ;  the  consequences  of 
it  she  had  not  as  yet  thought  very  deeply  of;  her  vow  she  felt 
separated  her  from  others  of  her  age,  and  made  her  different 
from  them ;  but  she  had  not,  from  her  very  innocence  and  sim- 


THE  END  OF  HARRY'S  HOLIDAY.          117 

plicity,  and  from  the  satisfaction  of  her  heart  in  its  friendship 
and  in  her  domestic  ties,  felt  its  strength  and  cruelty.  She  had 
within  a  year  outgrown  the  morbid  sensitiveness  of  her  child 
hood — the  spring  of  youth  animated  her  spirits,  and  a  healthier 
tone  had  taken  possession  of  her  mind.  The  frightful,  sleepless 
nights,  or  equally  frightful  and  exhausting  dreams  in  which  she 
had  lived  over  and  over  again  the  hour  that  preceded  Helena's 
death,  were  of  very  rare  occurrence  now ;  natural  vigor  was 
returning  to  her  nerves,  and  was  throwing  off  these  unhealthy 
visitations.  How  much  of  this  change  was  owing  to  the  influ 
ence  of  Dr.  Catherwood's  determined  and  judicious  treatment 
of  her  delicate  physique,  and  equally  delicately  organized  mind, 
it  was  impossible  to  judge  ;  certain  it  was,  however,  that  from  the 
time  of  his  first  coming  among  them,  she  had  seemed  an  altered 
and  more  natural  child,  and  grew  each  day  healthier  and  happier. 

This  evening,  as  she  sat  waiting  on  the  bridge  watching  for 
the  return  of  her  companion,  some  thoughts  of  the  difference 
he  had  made  in  her  life  came  over  her,  and  a  truer  estimate  of 
their  relations  suggested  itself  to  her  mind  for  the  moment. 
But  she  thought  still  only  as  a  child  thinks,  and  the  veil  was 
upon  her  heart. 

She  was  sitting  in  a  dreamy,  listless  attitude  upon  the  bridge, 
listening  idly  to  the  soft  rush  of  the  water  over  the  dam,  when 
a  sound  of  voices  met  her  ear — angry  voices  smothered  instantly, 
then  breaking  out  again  after  a  moment  in  involuntary  vehe 
mence.  Christine  knew  them  instantly — Julian's  shrill  tone 
and  Harry's  angry  muttering.  She  sprang  up  and  Jan  forward  j 
the  mill  door  stood  open ;  and  at  the  further  extremity  of  the 
building  another  door  stood  open — a  door  that  looked  down 
over  the  water  some  thirty  feet  below.  The  sight  of  this  door 
always  gave  Christine  a  shiver  ;  she  had  watched  it  in  fascination 
as  a  child,  when  the  miller  and  his  man  lowered  barrels  down 
from  it  to  the  boats  below,  and  had  felt  certain,  if  she  went 
near  enough  to  it  to  look  over  she  should  throw  herself  down 


118  THE    END    OF    HARRY'S    HOLIDAY. 

into  the  blue  and  rippling  surface  underneath.  The  surface  was 
not  blue  and  rippling  as  she  caught  sight  of  it  now;  it  was 
smooth  and  glassy,  and  gilded  with  the  color  of  the  sky — and 
immediately  before  it,  in  bold  relief  against  this  open  space  in 
the  dark  building,  were  the  two  boys  they  had  come  to  seek,  in 
a  close  wrestle  with  each  other,  fierce  angry  faces,  limbs  grap 
pling  each  other  with  eager  vehemence  of  purpose,  eyes  and 
voices  both  emitting  sudden  and  threatening  flames  of  anger. 
They  were  not  three  feet  from  the  open  door  ;  and  blinded  with 
rage  and  intent  only  on  one  thing,  it  was  not  strange  that  at 
one  moment  they  were  at  its  very  brink,  at  another  had  stag 
gered  several  feet  away  from  it. 

Christine's  blood  ran  cold  ;  she  started  forward,  uttered  a 
scream,  and  leaned  against  a  post  beside  her  for  support.  The 
scream  did  not  reach  or  penetrate  the  ears  of  the  passionate  and 
reckless  children.  The  time  that  passed  seemed  long  to  Chris 
tine,  but  it  was  in  fact  not  more  than  twenty  seconds,  during 
which  the  boys  reeled  forward  a  second  time  to  the  very  brink 
of  the  door-sill,  disputing  desperately  every  inch  of  the  floor, 
which  was  smooth,  and  worn,  and  slippery  with  the  fine  white 
powder  that  covered  everything  within  the  mill.  Harry,  with 
a  sudden  effort  of  his  great  strength,  threw  himself  on  his 
slight  antagonist  and  pressed  him  down  upon  his  knees  ;  it  was 
the  first  sign  who  might  be  the  conqueror  ;  a  dreadful  expression 
of  rage  lighted  Julian's  face  for  an  instant  as  he  felt  himself 
losing  ground.  He  made  a  sudden  movement  as  of  giving  way, 
which  relaxed  his  adversary's  grasp,  then  a  sudden  spring  and 
regained  his  feet,  and  with  his  one  free  hand  aimed  a  quick 
blow  between  the  other's  eyes. 

A  howl  of  pain,  a  relaxing  of  his  hold  upon  his  foe,  one  mis 
step,  a  clutch  towards  the  door-post  which  he  could  not  see,  a 
reeling  movement,  a  heavy  plunge  in  the  water  below,  and 
Harry  Gilmore's  holiday  was  over,  and  the  dark  waves  were 
settling  themselves  into  calm  above  his  senseless  body. 


ME.    BKOCKHULST   FORGETS   TO    TELL    HIS   BEADS.         119 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MR.    BROCKHULST    FORGETS    TO    TELL   HIS    BEADS. 

"  Pleasures  night  and  day  are  hovering 

Round  their  prey  of  weary  hours, 
Weakness  and  unrest  discovering 
In  the  best  of  human  powers." 

MILMES. 

CHRISTINK  did  not  appear  again  at  the  Hill  that  night,  neither 
did  Dr.  Catherwood.  Colonel  Steele  watched  for  them  with  jea 
lous  eyes  and  flirted  very  desperately  with  Madeline,  to  show  the 
world  he  had  no  interest  in  the  auburn-haired  girl  from  the 
Parsonage,  about  whose  absence  every  one  was  wondering.  He 
did  not  say  he  had  seen  her  go  away  with  Dr.  Catherwood,  foi 
the  reason  that  he  wished  to  keep  that  little  piece  of  intelli 
gence  in  his  own  hands  for  his  own  use  by-and-by,  and  no  one 
else  seemed  to  have  noticed  their  departure. 

Mrs.  Sherman  was  very  much  exercised  and  made  quite  a 
bruit  about  it,  but  fortunately  she  had  too  many  strings  to  her 
bow  that  night  to  harp  with  her  usual  pertinacity  upon  Chris 
tine.  She  was  busy  beyond  all  precedent.  The  Fair  so  far  had 
been  a  complete  success,  and  it  only  remained  for  her  to  render 
the  evening  at  her  house  satisfactory  and  delightful,  and  the 
Bishop  was  deposed  for  ever.  The  Bishop,  though  in  open  hos 
tility  to  the  whole  affair,  had  with  great  hardihood  and  malice 
come  to  the  tent  for  a  little  while  during  the  afternoon  strictly  en 
spectatenr,  and  had  been  obviously  chagrined  at  the  success  and 
the  brilliancy  of  the  affair.  Of  course  she  had  not  appeared  to 
give  in  at  all,  had  criticized  the  work,  sneered  at  the  clap-trap 
character  of  the  institution  called  the  post-office,  put  down  her 


120    ME.  BROCKHULST  FORGETS  TO  TELL  HIS  BEADS. 

ice-cream  -with  an  expression  of  face  that  could  not  be  mistaken, 
shaken  her  head  decidedly  at  the  offer  of  plum-cake,  and  smother 
ed  a  derisive  smile  at  the  sight  of  the  decorations.  But  still  it 
was  unanimously  decided  she  had  been  chagrined  and  much  sur 
prised,  and  Mrs.  Sherman  felt  completely  satisfied  so  far.  She 
had  charged  Madeline  with  the  rather  questionable  duty  of 
sending  her  through  the  post-office  a  spiteful  little  letter,  but 
she  got  the  better  of  Madeline  by  declining  to  take  it  out,  saying 
she  had  no  correspondent  who  wrote  such  an  unsightly  hand. 
After  that  Madeline  felt  herself  at  liberty  to  be  very  saucy  to 
her,  and  to  set  all  her  admirers  to  the  task  of  quizzing  her  ;  but 
with  all  their  combined  cleverness  they  did  not  make  much 
headway.  One  point,  certainly,  the  Bishop  made.  Madeline, 
with  all  the  glories  of  the  day  upon  her,  the  envied  of  all  the 
neglected  young  saleswomen,  the  admired  of  all  the  jaunty 
young  gentlemen  from  town,  had  a  restless,  unsatisfied  ambition 
in  her  heart.  Mr.  Brockhulst  had  not  been  near  her,  nor,  as  far 
as  she  knew,  looked  at  her  for  one  moment.  She  knew  it  was 
doubtful  whether  he  would  go  to  the  Hill  in  the  evening ;  she 
had  resolved  he  should  speak  to  her  before  he  went  away, 
which,  as  it  was  seven  o'clock,  he  might  do  any  moment.  She 
had  determined  he  should  be  fascinated  with  her  that  night,  and 
restore  her  to  her  former  position  with  him,  and  had  acted  over 
and  over  again  in  mind  the  little  scene  of  reconciliation,  or  rein 
statement,  or  whatever  it  might  be  called.  But  here  were  the 
precious  moments  slipping  away,  and  she  was  no  nearer  it  than 
she  had  been  at  the  beginning  of  the  afternoon.  She  was 
growing  so  uneasy  and  restless,  she  scarcely  could  talk  to  her 
admirers  as  became  an  accomplished  belle,  and  her  eyes  follow 
ed  the  young  clergyman  rather  imprudently  about  the  tent. 
For  Madeline,  though  very  clever,  and  a  coquette  by  nature, 
was  an  indifferent  actress  when  she  found  her  feelings  much 
enlisted.  The  Bishop,  sitting  down  to  rest  herself  near  Made 
line's  table,  rose  at  last,  and  said  as  she  passed  her : 


ME.  BROCKHULST  FOEGETS  TO  TELL  HIS  BEADS.    121 

"  Well,  Miss  Madeline,  I  think  you'll  have  to  give  up  count 
ing  change  if  Mr.  Brockhulst  stays  in  sight  much  longer.  Why 
don't  you  send  for  him  and  done  with  it  ?  I'm  on  my  way  out ; 
what  shall  I  tell  him  for  you  ?" 

That  was  the  point  the  Bishop  made ;  the  blood  rushed  to 
Madeline's  face,  her  eyes  fell — she  could  not  command  her 
voice  for  several  seconds. 

"  Tell  him  ?"•  she  said,  at  last,  rallying  and  looking  up  from  the 
change  she  had  been  bending  over  in  confusion.  "  Tell  him 
there  is  a  letter  for  him  in  the  office." 

"Very  well,  I  will.  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  an  interesting 
one." 

So,  while  she  strode  across  the  room  towards  the  young  min 
ister,  Madeline  sank  down  into  a  chair  and  drew  a  sheet  of 
paper  towards  her  hurriedly — what  should  she  write  ?  This 
was  a  flagrant  piece  of  coquetry,  considering  the  terms  he  had 
placed  her  on.  She  should  not  have  dreamed  of  doing  it  if  it 
had  not  been  for  this  wicked  and  impertinent  enemy's  attack. 
She  wished  she  had  only  kept  her  self-possession  and  not  sent 
her  on  such  a  foolish  embassy.  She  should  be  disgraced  when 
he  came  up  if  she  had  not  a  letter  ready,  and  her  fingers  shook 
so  she  could  not  have  written  a  line,  even  if  she  had  thought  of 
any  line  to  write,  and  she  could  not  keep  her  eyes  from  stray 
ing  over  in  the  direction  in  which  the  Bishop  went  on  her  most 
unhappy  errand. 

How  would  he  take  it?  She  saw  him  start  a  little,  bow 
stiffly,  and  turn  slowly  to  approach  the  table  where  she  sat. 
Her  eyes  dropped  on  the  paper — oh,  what  should  she  write ! — 
he  would  be  here  even  before  she  could  fold  up  and  direct  a 
blank  sheet  of  paper.  He  must  be  looking  at  her  now. 

He  might  have  been,  but  he  was  not.  The  young  clergy 
man's  face  was  quite  a  study  as  he  came  up  and  stood  before 
the  table  at  which  Madeline  was  sitting,  looking  down  in  con 
fusion  at  her  paper.  He  was  perfectly  pale,  and  his  eyes  were 

6 


122    ME.  BROCKHUL6T  FORGETS  TO  TELL  HIS  BEADS. 

turned  away  from  her.  He  looked  like  a  young  monk,  telling 
his  beads  with  averted  face,  while  Folly  and  her  giddy  troop 
passed  by.  Madeline,  with  crimson  cheeks,  agitated  move 
ments,  and  softened  eyes,  bent  her  beautiful  head  before  him. 

A  moment  passed  of  painful  silence,  another — and  then  she- 
lifted  her  eyes  timidly,  and  met  his  turned  towards  her  for  the 
first  time.  Ah,  fatal  glance,  that  undid  all  the  rigid  work  of 
the  past  three  weeks  of  penance!'  She  was  so  beautiful ;  and 
her  eyes  had  such  an  imploring,  deprecating,  almost  frightened 
look.  She  forgot  the  jaunty  young  gentlemen  with  their  straw 
hats  and  lilac  gloves ;  she  forgot  she  was  a  coquette,  and  a 
beauty,  and  all  that ;  for  the  moment  she  only  thought  of  the 
Parsonage  gate  over  which  the  honeysuckle  grew,  and  the  pale 
face  in  the  dim  church  afterwards.  She  was  wholly  swayed  by 
the  little  bit  of  sentiment  that  she  had  allowed  to  creep  into 
her  heart  latterly,  and  when  she  raised  her  eyes  they  were  full 
of  dangerous  feeling. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Brockhulst,"  she  said,  speaking  confusedly  and 
quickly,  "  I  am  so  sorry  Mrs.  Van  Kiper  sent  you,  for  there  is 
no  letter  for  you — it  was  only  her  idea.  I  hope  you're  not  dis 
pleased." 

There  was  a  moment  more  of  question  and  reply  made  with 
out  much  reference  to  common-sense  and  intelligent  interchange 
of  thought,  and  then  Mr.  Brockhulst  turned  to  go  away  a  little 
paler  than  when  he  had  come  up. 

All  the  coquette  in  Madeline's  heart  sprang  out  of  ambush 
then ;  he  should  not  go  in  that  manner,  he  should  not  escape 
her  so. 

"You  are  coming  to  the  Hill  this  evening,  Mr.  Brockhulst?" 
she  said,  with  a  half-veiled  brightness  in  her  eyes  as  she  lifted 
them  to  his.  "  It — is  so  long  since  you  have  been  there — I 
mean — to  stay  for  more  than  a  few  minutes.  Mrs.  Sherman 
will  be  disappointed." 

Mr.  Brockhulst  forgot  to  count  his  beads  that  minute;  he 


MK.   BKOCKHULST   FOKGETS   TO  TELL  HIS  BEADS.         123 

looked  into  Folly's  beautiful  eyes,  and  pledged  himself  to  come 
that  evening  to  the  Hill,  and  then  he  went  away  to  another 
stall  in  the  fair,  with  a  miserable  consciousness  that  he  had  lost 
a  terrible  amount  of  ground. 


124  VALSE    A   DEUX   TEMPS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

VALSE    A    DEUX   TEMPS. 

"  Hera  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing ; 
She  was  the  queen,  the  rose,  the  star, 

And  when  she  danced— oh,  heaven,  her  dancing  1" 


PRAED. 


"  I  WONDER  where  Christine  can  be !"  said  Madeline  to  Colo 
nel  Steele  about  half-past  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  as  she 
rested  a  moment  with  him  on  the  western  balcony,  after  one  of 
those  prolonged  and  breathless  waltzes  for  which  he  was  so  fa 
mous.  "  It  is  just  like  her  to  have  gone  home  to  read  the 
paper  to  her  father,  or  make  jelly  for  some  of  Dr.  Catherwood's 
poor  patients." 

"  Ah !"  said  the  Colonel,  carelessly,  "  Dr.  Catherwood  ha3 
then  a  benevolent  turn  of  mind  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  extraordinarily  so,  I  think ;  only  a  physician  has  so 
many  calls  upon  his  charity,  and  I  believe  he  turns  them  all 
over  to  the  Parsonage.  I  really  think  he  imposes  on  Christine ; 
no  other  girl  would  stand  it,  but  then  she  is  like  no  other  girl. 
For  instance,  he  is  always  there,  just  as  much  at  home  as  if  it 
were  his  own  house,  and  yet  he  never  thinks  of  paying  Chris 
tine  any  of  the  attentions  which  their  hospitality  deserves.  He 
treats  her  in  a  way  that  cannot  flatter  her — as  if  she  were  a 
child  or  a  near  relative ;  or,  in  fact,  sometimes  as  if  she  were 
not  in  existence  or  a  perfect  stranger  to  him.  Now  that's  not 
flattering,  Colonel  Steele;  do  you  think  it  is?" 

"Well,  but  Miss  Clybourne,  think  of  the  difference  in  their 
ages ;  Miss  Christine  is  so  very  young." 


VALSE   A    DEUX   TEMPS.  125 

"  Why,  yes,  if  you  call  seventeen  so  very  young.  But  Dr. 
Catherwood  is  not  so  very  old,  Colonel  Steele ;  I  do  not  call 
thirty-five  or  thirty-seven  old  ;  do  you  ?  And  I  call  Dr.  Gather- 
wood  a  very  handsome  and  a  very  fascinating  man,  and  if 
Christine  were  not  like  a  little  nun,  she  would  not  have  her 
heart  in  her  own  keeping  now,  seeing  him  so  often." 

"  Miss  Clybourne,  that  is  an  admission.  How  often  do  you 
see  him,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  Not  every  day,  by  any  means.  But  I  do  acknowledge, 
when  Dr.  Catherwood  talks  to  me,  I  think  he  is  perfection,  and 
I  wish  he  thought  it  was  his  duty  to  come  to  see  mamma  as 
often  as  he  goes  to  see  the  Rector  ;  and  I  am  sure  of  one  thing, 
I  would  make  better  use  of  my  advantages  than  Christine 
makes  of  hers,  the  silly  child.  Why,  she  is  a  study,  that 
Christine,  I  do  assure  you,  Colonel  Steele." 

Colonel  Steele  smiled  sublimely  and  indifferently,  as  if  the 
only  study  that  had  any  interest  for  him  was  endorsed  Cly 
bourne,  M.,  for  Colonel  Steele  had  been  a  lady's  man  too  long 
to  talk  with  admiration  of  one  woman  to  another. 

He  was  very  willing  to  keep  Madeline  on  the  subject  on 
which  she  had  begun,  however,  and  tried  to  draw  her  out  upon 
it ;  but  she  was  by  far  too  restless  to  be  long  upon  one  thing, 
and  could  not  be  contented  unless  she  was  being  nattered  or 
excited  in  some  way.  She  liked  Colonel  Steele  very  well  while 
he  was  flattering  her,  or  dancing  with  her,  or  making  her  walk 
up  and  down  the  parlors  with  him,  while  everybody's  eyes  fol 
lowed  them  with  admiration.  She  had  said,  truly  too,  while 
Dr.  Catherwood  talked  to  her  she  thought  he  was  perfection, 
and  wished  very  much  that  she  could  make  it  worth  his  while 
to  fall  in  love  with  her.  Even  Mr.  Leslie's  triple  extract  of 
devotion  pleased  her  for  the  moment,  and  set  her  to  dreaming 
of  what  true  love  might  be.  It  was  all  excitement  and  uncer 
tainty  in  her  immature  and  undisciplined  heart  as  yet ;  a  thou 
sand  contradictory  impulses  emanated  from  it — a  thousand 


126  VALSE    A   DEUX  TEMPS. 

delnsive  and  uncertain  rays  gleamed  out  of  it — a  thousand 
unformed  thoughts  and  wishes  struggled  in  it ;  it  was  harsh  to 
blame  her  for  deluding  others,  when  she  was  as  much  bewil 
dered  as  she  bewildered  them.  What  place  the  young  minis 
ter  had  in  reality  in  this  half-grown,  ignorant,  and  fitful  heart, 
she  could  not  have  told  herself;  her  mother  watching  her  night 
and  day  could  not  have  told,  the  world  with  its  sharpest  lorg 
nette  at  its  eye  could  not  have  told  correctly. 

She  seemed  ambitious,  because  she  was  high-spirited  and  full 
of  an  eager  hopefulness~that  had  formed  no  worthier  aim  than 
had  been  placed  before  her.  She  seemed  vain,  because  she  was 
overflowing  with  the  happiness  that  comes  from  winning  love 
and  homage,  and  because  she  had  not  the  discretion  to  conceal 

O     ' 

the  source  from  whence  her  pleasure  came.  She  seemed 
deceitful  and  coquettish,  because  her  eyes  and  her  lips  both 
spoke  feeling  that  they  did  not  long  retain  ;  both  uttered  that 
which  was  only  truth  for  the  moment — that  which  was  called 
up  by  what  she  saw  in  others,  and  which  faded  before  she 
recognised  its  shape  herself.  The  true  heart,  the  true  love, 
were  struggling  into  birth  ;  it  was  all  chaos  now.  A  miserable 
man  he,  whose  happiness,  hung  upon  what  he  could  gather  of 
her  heart  from  what  he  saw  upon  the  surface. 

"  Another  waltz,  Miss  Clybourne  ?  That  music  is  delicious," 
half  whispered  Colonel  Steele  as  he  caught  the  strains  within. 
Madeline  said  yes;  with  a  beaming  look  of  pleasure  as  she 
caught  them  too,  for  music  set  her  pulses  beating  always. 

In  a  moment  they  were  in  the  room,  her  hand  in  his,  his  arm 
upon  her  waist,  just  ready  to  move  down  the  room  in  the  lovely 
deux  temps  motion,  when  her  eye  fell  upon  something  that 
made  her  start  and  pause,  and  withdraw  her  hand  suddenly 
from  his. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  I'll  dance,"  she  said,  drawing  back. 

He  gave  her  a  look  of  surprise  that  made  her  falter  and 
color. 


VALSE    A    DEUX   TEMPS.  127 

"  I — that  is — you  had  better  ask  somebody  else.  I  do  not 
think  I  can  dance  any  more  ;  I  wish  you  would  excuse  me." 

She  had  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Brockhulst  entering  the  room, 
and  her  impulse  had  been  to  get  out  of  the  position  the  was  in, 
and  not  to  let  him  see  her  dancing.  She  did  not  put  this  into 
words.  She  did  not  define  to  herself  the  feeling  that  made  her 
shrink  from  being  seen  by  him  with  Colonel  Steele's  arm  upon 
her  waist,  and  with  the  eyes  of  all  the  room  upon  her  as  she 
floated  through  it  to  that  most  bewitching  music.  She  had 
never  felt  before  that  it  was  wrong  to  dance.  She  had  never 
felt  before  that  there  was  anything  to  blush  about  in  that  arm 
upon  her  waist.  These  thoughts  flashed  through  her  mind  for 
the  first  time  as  she  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Brockhulst's  face, 
though  he  had  not  seen  her,  though  he  had  looked  no  reproach. 
She  felt,  though  she  did  not  know  she  felt  it,  the  true  test  of 
purity  and  womanliness  at  that  moment ;  there  was  but  one 
who  had  a  right  to  what  she  was  giving  to  every  one  that 
asked  it.  She  passed  through  a  trial  at  that  short  instant  that 
gave  its  color  to  her  whole  future  life.  That  sudden  doubt, 
that  strong  conviction — how  could  she  have  put  them  aside  ? 

But  she  did ;  she  listened  a  moment  too  long  to  her  com 
panion's  pleading  whisper — a  moment  too  long  to  the  alluring 
music;  she  subjected  her  feelings  to  too  material  and  common 
place  a  criticism  ;  she  vowed  to  herself  she  could  not  see  the 
wrong.  She  only  did  what  all  the  world  was  doing ;  she 
would  not  listen  to  such  scruples ;  she  did  not  care  enough 
what  Mr.  Brockhulst  thought  to  make  her  lose  her  pleasure  ; 
after  all,  he  might  not  care ;  and  if  he  did,  did  she  f  And  so 
she  yielded  to  the  embrace  that  a  moment  before  she  had 
shrunk  from  in  alarm,  and  floated  down  the  room  with  as  per 
fect  a  grace  as  ever,  but  with  less  perfect  innocence. 

And  Mr.  Brockhulst,  making  his  way  across  the  room,  caught 
suddenly  the  beautiful  and  hateful  vision,  and  felt  as  if  his  life 
were  worthless  to  him  after  he  had  seen  it.  He  was  new  to  all 


128  VALSE    A    DEUX   TEMPS. 

this — the  world  was  the  world  to  him  as  yet,  and  one  of  his  three 
enemies.  His  face  must  have  shown  his  dismay  and  pain,  for 
Madeline,  pausing  at  last,  glanced  at  him  and  felt  her  heart 
sink  involuntarily.  His  eyes  were  averted  and  he  was  near  the 
door,  looking  as  if  he  felt  himself  most  miserably  out  of  place, 
and  as  if  he  cared  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  escape  from  the 
scene  in  which  he  found  himself.  Madeline  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  undone  the  work  of  the  last  ten  minutes  ;  the 
music  had  ceased,  the  thrill  of  excitement  was  over ;  she  was 
weary  and  disenchanted,  and  Colonel  Steele,  looking  heated  and 
commonplace,  seemed  almost  impertinent  in  his  care  of  her, 
urging  her  to  go  into  the  hall  for  the  fresh  air,  to  let  him  get 
her  an  ice,  to  sit  down  by  the  window,  to  do  anything,  in  fact, 
to  allow  him  to  show  his  right  and  his  desire  to  be  devoted. 

How  she  hated  herself!  If  she  only  had  been  firm  !  She 
wished  she  were  Christine  reading  the  paper  to  her  father  in 
the  quiet  old  Parsonage  parlor,  or  the  little  Richfield  sitting  in 
dull  propriety  between  her  mother  and  her  elder  sister  near  the 
folding  doors.  She  looked  discontented  and  weary,  and  when 
some  gentleman  came  up  to  ask  her  to  dance  with  him  again, 
she  refused  haughtily  and  ungently,  and  then  felt  disgraced  a 
moment  after,  and  the  next  comer  found  her  more  gracious  and 
less  dignified  than  she  had  ever,been  before.  She  consented  to 
let  Colonel  Steele  get  her  an  ice,  and  she  walked  up  and  down 
the  hall  with  two  or  three  of  his  military  confreres  while  he 
went  for  it,  they  keeping  up  a  laughing  rivalry  for  her  favor, 
and  making  that  open  and  extravagant  show  of  devotion  which 
may  be  amusing,  but  is  never  flattering  to  a  woman. 

Madeline  felt  this ;  she  felt  these  officers  would  not  have 
talked  so  to  Christine;  she  felt  that  in  some  way  she  was  low 
ered  by  her  belleship. 

The  fact  was,  she  was  too  high-toned  for  the  role  she  had 
undertaken  to  play  ;  she  was  too  finely  made  to  be  the  popular 
beauty  she  aspired  to  be ;  she  could  not  be  an  indiscriminate 


VALSE    A    DEUX   TEMPS.  129 

favorite  without  damage  to  her  delicacy  of  feeling.  These  men 
did  not  understand  her,  because  she  was  not  commonplace ;  her 
beauty  was  striking  and  brilliant,  and  it  attracted  them ;  but  a 
soulless  and  less  refined  beauty  would  have  attracted  them  as 
much.  Madeline  was  refined,  she  had  soul,  but  they  could  not 
understand  the  difference  between  her  and  the  other  girls  they 
danced  with  in  society,  except  that  she  was  handsomer  and 
fresher.  Her  manners  had  the  abandon  and  gaiety  of  youth, 
sometimes  the  daring  and  impetuosity  of  talent  and  wit  that 
she  had  not  learned  to  smother ;  they  could  not  detect  that 
freedom  of  thought  and  levity  of  character  were  very  different 
things.  And  by  their  treatment  of  her  they  were  leading  her 
fast  to  what  they  supposed  her  to  be  ;  or  rather,  to  more  than 
they  supposed  her  to  be,  for  commonplace  was  impossible  to 
her,  and  satisfaction  in  such  homage  as  they  could  pay  her 
could  not  last  long. 

She  passed  and  repassed  Mr.  Brockhulst  standing  near  the 
door  talking  with  ill-concealed  want  of  interest  to  a  group  of 
three  or  four ;  she  tried  to  catch  his  eye,  to  loiter  long  enough 
in  passing  to  give  him  an  opportunity  of  joining  her — but  it 
was  in  vain.  He  never  glanced  towards  her,  never  gave  the 
least  indication  that  he  knew  of  her  vicinity.  At  length  im 
patient  of  this  treatment,  and  lacking  the  self-control  to  conceal 
her  chagrin,  she  declined  continuing  her  promenade  any  further, 
and  sat  down  on  a  sofa  near  the  group  in  which  her  interest 
centred.  She  was  too  abstracted  to  be  agreeable  long  to  her 
admirers ;  her  eagerness  to  catch  the  voices  of  her  neighbors 
interfered  extremely  with  listening  to  what  the  admirers  had  to 
say  to  her,  and  soon  she  was  left  with  only  one,  who  stayed 
more  from  good  manners  than  great  interest. 

The  sofa  on  which  they  were  sitting  was  near  the  front  door ; 
the  group  of  gentlemen  around  Mr.  Brockhulst  stood  just 
beyond  them,  beside  the  first  parlor  door.  Madeline  presently 
saw  a  man  come  up  the  steps  of  the  piazza  and  look  anxiously 

6* 


130  VALSE    A   DEUX   TEMPS. 

and  awkwardly  around  him  for  some  one  to  whom  to  make  his 
errand  known.  He  was  a  roughly  dressed  man,  in  dusty  mil 
ler's  clothes,  and  his  anxious  face  and  working-day  apparel  con 
trasted  strongly  with  the  festival  scene  which  he  was  approach 
ing.  He  looked  at  the  knocker  and  at  the  bell,  and  seemed 
rather  afraid  of  both,  hesitating  awkwardly  and  glancing  up 
and  down  the  piazza  and  the  hall. 

"  What  does  that  man  want  ?"  said  Madeline,  getting  up  and 
going  to  the  door,  followed  by  Mr.  Leslie. 

The  man  responded  to  her  inquiry  by  saying :  "  The  minis 
ter,  Miss ;  they  say  he's  here." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Madeline,  starting  forward.    "  I'll  tell  him." 

But  before  she  had  said  the  words,  he  had  turned  quickly 
and  was  coming  to  the  door,  showing  he  had  been  listening 
though  he  had  not  been  looking. 

"  What  is  it,  Tom  ?"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  door 
post,  the  man  standing  just  outside  the  sill,  Madeline  and  her 
companion  just  inside  it.  "  Any  trouble  at  the  mill  ?" 

"  Bad  enough,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "  The  miller's  boy  is 
drowned,  and  the  miller's  wife,  she's  in  a  dreadful  way ;  and 
the  boss  himself,  he  says  to  me :  '  Tom,  run,  ask  the  minister  to 
come  down ;  maybe  he'll  think  o'  something  he  can  say  to  her ;' 
and  so  they  told  me  at  your  place  you  was  here,  and  so  I  come 
here  for  you  if  you  can  spare  the  time." 

"  Drowned !"  repeated  the  minister,  with  an  expression  of  the 
deepest  feeling.  "  Tom,  are  you  quite  sure  there  is  no  hope — 
that  there  isn't  some  mistake  ?" 

Tom  shook  his  head.  "You  wouldn't  think  so  if  you'd 
been  with  me  and  Dr.  Catherwood  when  we  drew  him  up  from 
under  that  big  wheel,  as  dead  and  cold  as  if  he'd  been  there  for 
a  week — and  heavy !  You  never  felt  nothing  like  the  weight 
of  that  poor  boy.  It  was  horrid  business  takin'  him  down  to 
his  mother — though  the  Doctor  kept  tellin'  her  there  was  a 
good  many  chances  he  might  be  revived.  But  they've  been 


VALSE    A   DEUX   TEMPS.  131 

workin'  over  him  these  two  hours  and  more,  and  there  isn't 
many  chances  left,  you  see — if  ever  there  was  any  at  the  start." 

The  minister,  during  this  recital,  had  gone  to  the  table  near 
him  for  his  hat,  and  without  a  look  or  word  to  any  one,  had 
hurried  down  the  steps  accompanied  by  the  man. 

"  That's  where  Christine  is,  I  suppose,"  said  Madeline, 
thoughtfully,  looking  after  them.  "  Harry  Gilmore  was  at  the 
Fair  this  afternoon  with  Julian.  It  seems  frightful.  Mr.  Leslie, 
go  ask  mamma  if  she  is  not  almost  ready  to  go  home." 


132  A   VIGIL. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    VIGIL. 

"  The  Saints  will  aid,  if  men  will  call, 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all." 

"  CHRISTINE,  go  home,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood  in  a  low  tone, 
taking  her  by  the  hand  and  leading  her  out  into  the  little  porch 
before  the  miller's  house.  "  I  have  desired  you  to  go  before  ; 
now  I  must  command  it — see,"  he  added,  taking  out  his  watch 
and  leaning  back  to  look  at  it  by  the  light  from  the  room  they 
had  just  left.  "  See,  it  is  past  twelve,  and  I  did  not  ask  you  to 
go  till  the  boy  revived — now  there  is  no  excuse.  You  can  do 
nothing — I  shall  stay  here  all  night,  though  I  assure  you  I 
feel  safe  about  him,  and  there  are  Mr.  Brockhulst  and  Tom,  and 
twenty  others  if  I  wanted  them,  to  help  me  in  watching  over 
him.  You  cannot  be  of  any  comfort  to  the  mother ;  I  believe 
her  to  be  half  insane,  and  your  presence  only  has  the  effect  of 
exciting  her  just  now.  Where  is  your  bonnet?  There,  put  it 
on  and  go  home  ;  it  is  very  dark,  but  I  know  you  do  not  mind — 
I  will  send  Tom,  the  miller's  man,  with  you  for  protection." 

"  But  I  wish  you  would  let  me  stay,"  faltered  Christine,  im 
ploringly.  "If  any  change  should  happen." 

"  But  no  change  will  happen,"  said  the  Doctor  firmly,  "  except 
the  change  we  all  desire  to  see;  my  dear  child,  this  is  very  foolish  !" 

For  Christine,  sinking  down  upon  the  bench  outside  the  door, 
had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  given  way  to  a  burst 
of  tears.  He  drew  the  door  shut,  so  that  no  one  within  should 
hear  her,  and  sat  down  at  her  side.  He  did  not  very  much 
wonder  that  she  had  given  way  at  last.  He  had  been  watching 


A   VIGIL.  133 

her  anxiously  for  several  hours,  expecting  every  moment  the 
failure  of  endurance  that  had  come.  He  had  not  had  the  heart 
to  send  her  away  before  he  had  any  hope  to  give  her,  though 
he  had  felt  regret  for  the  injury  that  the  dreadful  scene  was 
doing  her.  The  sight  of  the  raving  mother,  the  dumb  stricken 
father,  the  white,  deathlike  face  of  the  boy  upon  the  bed,  with 
the  deep,  black  bruise  between  his  eyes,  would  have  been 
severely  trying  to  such  sensitive  nerves  and  such  a  tender  heart 
as  hers,  if  the  dreadful  thought  that  it  was  all  Julian's  work, 
and  so  all  in  a  manner  her  responsibility,  had  not  for  ever  been 
present  in  her  mind,  till  she  felt,  and  spoke,  and  looked  like  one 
in  a  frightful  trance. 

Dr.  Catherwood  had,  at  present,  no  desire  so  strong  as  to  get 
her  home  and  in  a  way  of  resting,  quieted  by  the  thought  that 
the  danger  was  almost  over,  and  yet  he  did  not  dare  to  leave 
the  house  long  enough  to  take  her  to  the  Parsonage.  He 
longed  to  soothe  her,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  enter  on  the  sub 
ject  that  was  now  the  only  thought  she  had,  fearing  it  would 
bring  up  too  much  to  be  controlled  at  present,  and  yet  he  must 
try  to  quiet  her  in  some  way.  It  was  hard  not  to  show  her  any 
sympathy,  nor  allow  her  to  see  how  his  heart  had  ached  for 
her,  and  how  thoroughly  he  understood  her.  So  he  said 
quietly,  drawing  away  her  hand  from  her  face  : 

"  Don't  let  them  hear  you,  my  dear  Christine.  It  is  very 
natural  you  should  be  unnerved  after  such  a  long  and  exciting 
day.  You  need  rest  very  much.  Let  us  see !  You  were  busy 
all  the  morning  getting  things  ready  for  the  Fair,  and  from  ten 
o'clock  till  seven  you  were  standing  in  the  tent,  busy  and  excit 
ed  all  the  time.  I  doubt  if  you  have  had  a  half  hour  of  quiet 
since  breakfast  time  this  morning." 

Christine  raised  her  head  and  articulated  through  her  sobs : 
"  Do  not  talk  about  my  resting  ;  you  know  it  is  not  that." 

"  I  know  it  is  just  that,"  he  said.  "  I  know  your  nerves  are 
perfectly  unstrung  by  excitement,  alarm,  and  over-fatigue." 


134  A   VIGIL. 

"Then  why  do  you  reproach  me  for  crying?"  she  said,  sink 
ing  back  again  and  covering  her  face.  "  Oh  !  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  if  there  is  really  any  hope,  and  not  try  to  pacify  me  as 
you  do !" 

"Do  you  suppose  I  would  deceive  you ?"  he  said,  seriously. 

"  No,  oh  no !  not  deceive  me,  exactly  ;  but  you  are  so  sorry 
for  me  you  want  to  believe  so  yourself,  whatever  the  truth  may 
be.  You  know  it  would  kill  me  if  this  boy  should  die,  and 
you  try  to  convince  yourself  and  me  that  he  will  live.  But  he 
will  not !  I  know  before  the  night  is  over  that  little  spark  is 
going  out.  I  know  it  and  you  fear  it,  and  yet  you  tell  me  to 
go  home  and  rest !  Home !  How  can  I  get  rest  at  home  ? 
That  is  the  last  place — I  do  not  ever  want  to  go  home  again — 
I  wish  I  could  die  this  moment — I  shall  die  with  all  this  load 
upon  me." 

"  Christine,"  said  her  companion,  standing  beside  her  and 
speaking  in  a  firm  and  serious  voice,  "  I  tried  to  spare  you  this, 
and  you  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  submitted  to  me  and 
controlled  yourself.  But  since  it  has  expressed  itself,  let  us  talk 
calmly  of  what  I  fear  you  to  be  incapable  of  thinking  calmly 
now.  It  is  wiser  to  strangle  doubts  and  fears  than  to  give 
them  words  and  make  them  real ;  but  you  have  done  it  and  it  is 
too  late.  In  the  first  place,  you  cannot  fully  trust  me  ;  you  do 
not  think  I  believe  what  I  have  told  you  in  regard  to  the  boy's 
state.  That  is  unjust,  for  you  cannot  recall  a  single  instance  in 
which  you  can  say  I  have  deceived  you.  I  have  told  you  the 
truth  about  the  boy ;  I  believe  he  will  recover ;  I  did  not  think 
of  telling  you  to  go  away  until  I  was  convinced  the  danger  had 
passed  over ;  and  now  about  the  dread  of  meeting  your  father 
and  of  seeing  Julian.  You  need  not  tell  your  father  any 
thing  unless  you  choose.  I  will  tell  him  all  to-morrow.  And 
for  Julian,  would  you  have  had  any  such  feeling  about  him  if 
he  had  thrown  his  companion  on  the  green  turf  instead  of  off 
into  the  deep  water  ?  The  fault  on  his  part  would  have  been 


A  VIGIL.  135 

the  same.  __  He  had  no  intention  of  doing  anything  more  in  this 
case  than  he  would  have  had  in  that.  You  must  judge  of  sins 
by  their  actual  intentions,  not  their  accidental  results.  Harry's 
design  was  no  more  innocent  than  Julian's ;  if  he  had  had  the 
strength  and  skill  to  do  what  Julian,  aided  by  accident,  has  done, 
Julian  would  have  been  lying  now  where  Harry  is.  Be  thank 
ful  that  things  are  no  worse,  and  do  not  think  of  possibilities, 
for  that  is  always  folly.  I  ask  you  not  to  exaggerate  Julian's 
fault,  while  I  do  not  attempt  to  excuse  it  n^self ;  I  shall  treat 
it  to  him  as  seriously  as  if  it  had  had  the  worst  result,  and  I  sin 
cerely  hope  the  alarm  he  has  gone  through  will  have  a  good 
effect  upon  him.  This  may  be  the  happiest  thing  for  him.  I 
certainly  am  not  without  hope  that  it  was  for  that  purpose  that 
it  was  allowed  to  happen.  Do  not  endeavor  to  speak  to  him 
yourself  about  it.  Leave  that  to  me ;  I  think  I  begin  to  under 
stand  him  better,  and  a  man  always  has  more  authority.  If 
you  are  willing  to  be  guided  by  me,  do  this ;  go  home,  satisfied 
with  what  I  have  told  you  of  the  boy's  condition  ;  do  not  allow 
yourself  to  think,  or  reason,  or  look  back.  You  can  do  none 
of  these  things  calmly  now.  You  must  only  try  to  divert 
yourself  from  thought.  See  no  one  to-night.  Sleep  if  possi 
ble  ;  lie  still  at  all  events ;  I  will  bring  you  the  earliest  reports 
from  here ;  if  I  am  not  at  the  Parsonage  before  the  family  are 
down,  act  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  ;  meet  Julian  seriously 
but  simply.  Do  not  give  him  the  impression  you  are  horrified 
at  him,  and  yet  do  not  be  affectionate.  Are  you  willing  to  do 
all  this  and  to  trust  that  this  once  I  know  best  ?" 

Christine  made  some  sign  of  assent  and  rose,  taking  her  bon 
net  from  her  companion's  hand  and  going  towards  the  steps 
without  a  word. 

"  Wait  till  I  call  Tom,"  he  said ;  "  and  now,  good-night." 
Perhaps  he  ought  not  to  have  been  disappointed  that  her 
good-night  was  so  languid  and  docile  as  she  passed  out  of  the 
gate,  followed  by  Tom,  leaving  him   looking  after  them,  or 


136  A   VIGIL. 

rather  listening  after  them,  for  the  night  was  dense  and  black, 
and  Christine's  white  dress  was  swallowed  up  by  the  darkness 
half  a  minute  after  he  had  parted  from  her.  He  only  waited 
for  a  moment  listening  for  her  receding  steps  along  the  gravel 
path,  and  then  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch  and  went  back  into 
the  room  where  Harry  Gilmore  lay  feverish  and  unconscious  on 
the  bed,  watched  over  by  the  pale  young  minister,  and  his 
clumsy-handed,  tendor-hearted  father.  The  mother,  with 
strangely  gleaming  eyes,  sat  beside  the  hearth,  with  face 
averted,  beating  her  foot  upon  the  rug  and  pressing  her  lips 
close  together.  She  was  a  woman  to  make  one  afraid  as  she 
looked  then — a  "  bear  robbed  of  her  whelps,"  a  fierce  lioness 
crouching  beside  the  lair  that  treachery  and  cruelty  have  deso 
lated,  and  lashing  silently  with  the  wrath  and  hate  that  fill  her. 
Dr.  Catherwood  felt  a  shiver  as  he  looked  at  her ;  there  was  a 
dangerous  meaning  in  her  eyes  as  she  saw  that  he  came  in 
alone. 

"  I  have  sent  Miss  Upham  home,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as 
he  passed  by  her,  "  and  you  yourself  had  better  go  to  bed." 

A  sneer  passed  over  her  features  as  she  turned  away  her 
head. 

"  Richard  and  Mr.  Brockhulst  will  sit  up  for  the  present,"  he 
went  on,  "  and  I  shall  not  go  away  at  all.  You  may  as  well 
take  a  little  rest ;  I  shall  watch  every  change." 

"  No  doubt  you  will,"  she  muttered,  under  her  breath ;  "  no 
doubt,  it  will  be  worse  for  the  parson's  grandson  if  you  do  not 
bring  him  through — it  will  be  no  fault  of  yours  if  Julian 
Upham  sleeps  to-morrow  night  in  jail ;  you'll  do  your  best  to 
bring  my  boy  through  this.  Oh,  yes.  I  know  you  will.  I 
know  how  good  you  are,  all  you  rich  people,  and  how  you  hold 
together." 

"  Listen,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  putting  his  hand  with  a 
pretty  heavy  emphasis  upon  her  shoulder  and  speaking  into 
her  ear  as  he  leaned  down  ;  "  let  me  hear  no  more  of  this ;  as 


A   VIGIL.  Io7 

surely  as  I  do,  you  will  have  cause  to  rue  it.  I  will  save  tlie 
boy  if  he  can  be  saved,  but  not  because  his  living  or  his  dying 
will  make  a  straw's  difference  in  Julian  Upham's  future.  I 
want  you  to  understand  fully,  now,  at  this  point,  before  the 
doubt  about  his  recovery  is  quite  gone,  and  before  I  have 
spoken  to  any  one  but  you,  that  there  are  witnesses,  of  whom  I 
am  one,  who  can  prove  Julian's  act  was  one  of  self-defence ; 
that  Harry  was  struggling  to  do  what  Julian  did  accidentally. 
Julian  might  as  well  have  been  the  victim.  Harry  is  twice  as 
strong  as  he,  and  ought  to  be  ashamed  for  daring  to  lay  a  fin 
ger  on  a  boy  who  isn't  half  his  size.  If  he  gets  better,  he 
shall  be  made  an  example  of,  should  such  a  thing  occur  again. 
They  are  both  bad  boys,  though  everybody  inclines  to  Julian's 
side,  because  he  is  so  little.  I  do  not  for  my  part  think  Harry 
is  any  more  to  blame  than  he.  He  is  not  wickedly  bent,  I 
think,  but  you  have  brought  him  up  badly ;  and  this,  I  hope, 
will  be  a  lesson  to  you.  You  must  have  some  authority  over 
him,  or  you  will  see  worse  scenes  than  this.  I  have  not  said 
half  as  much  as  I  might  say,  or  as  I  meant  to  say  when  I 
began.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  and  I  should  not  have  spoken,  but 
I  thought  it  best  to  stop  you  from  making  trouble  for  your 
self  and  for  your  boy,  if  he  ever  lives  to  feel  the  need  of  a  fair 
name  and  the  good-will  of  those  around  him.  Now,  I  want 
quiet  in  the  room,  and  you  must  leave  it,  or  be  silent  and  not 
make  a  sign  that  you  are  here." 

Phoebe  Gilmore's  face  was  white  and  her  lips  purple  with  the 
swelling  passion  that  gleamed  out  from  her  eyes,  but  she  was 
mastered  by  the  unexpected  sternness  and  authority  of  one  to 
whom  all  looked  for  sympathy  and  kindness.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  ever  had  been  subdued,  by  man  or  woman, 
when  her  temper  had  once  got  possession  of  her ;  she  was 
fairly  stunned  by  the  force  of  a  will  so  much  stronger  than  her 
own,  so  rough  and  ruthless,  too,  where  all  the  world  would 
have  been  tender  and  considerate.  His  hand  had  been  heavy 


138  A   VIGIL. 

and  strong  upon  her  shoulder,  his  voice  low  but  stern,  with  a 
vehement  intention  in  every  accentuated  syllable;  his  eyes, 
when  she  once  met  them,  had  had  a  look  that  she  had  trem 
bled  under.  She  threw  one  glance  after  him  as  he  moved 
towards  the  bed,  whence  a  faint  moan  had  come,  and  then 
sat  like  a  stone  and  gave  no  sign  that  she  heard  or  had  an 
interest  in  what  was  going  on  around  her. 

The  doctor's  cheek  was  a  little  flushed  as  he  bent  over  the 
oed,  and  his  cool  hand  a  thought  less  steady  as  he  laid  it  on 
the  boy's  fevered  skin ;  there  was  a  dark,  angry  trouble  in  his 
eyes,  too,  unlike  their  ordinary  clear,  true  light,  for,  Christian 
man  as  he  was,  he  had  that  moment  spoken  an  untruth,  that 
moment  laid  a  cruel  lash  on  one  whose  suffering  should  have 
made  her  sacred.  It  was  the  only  way  to  manage  her,  the 
only  way  to  prevent  a  scandal  and  to  spare  Christine.  lie  had 
said  he  would  save  the  boy  if  he  could  be  saved,  but  .not  be 
cause  it  would  make  a  straw's  difference  in  Julian's  future. 
What  a  strange  contradiction  was  his  troubled,  darkened  glance, 
as  the  fever  thickened  and  quickened  in  the  child's  swollen 
veins,  as  the  black  bruise  between  his  eyes  deepened  and  grew 
broader !  What  a  tale  his  unsteady  fingers  told  as  he  strove 
to  measure  out  the  draughts,  whose  effects  he  watched  with 
such  ill-concealed  anxiety  !  He  had  an  interest  in  Harry  Gil- 
more's  safety  that  he  hoped  to  conceal  from  others,  that  he  felt 
made  him  a  coward  and  a  hypocrite.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
persuade  Christine  and  to  force  it  upon  this  woman  that  Julian 
had  no  concern  in  his  recovery ;  but  he  knew  too  well  what 
fallacy  it  was.  If  this  boy  died,  Julian's  future  would  receive 
a  blight  from  which  it  could  not  be  redeemed  ;  the  scandal,  the 
publicity  of  what  would  follow  the  death  of  his  young  victim, 
would  never  be  forgotten — would  cling  to  him  for  life,  make 
him  what  naturally  he  inclined  to  be,  would  lead  him  to  what 
nothing  but  tenderness  and  watchfulness  extreme  could  save  him 
from — the  career  of  an  outlaw  and  a  reprobate.  If  there  were 


A   VIGIL.  139 

any  good  latent  in  him,  this  horrid  and  sickening  occurrence 
would  crush  it  out  completely,  would  ripen  into  early  maturity 
the  evil  of  his  nature. 

Julian's  doom  was  written  if  the  miller's  son  should  die  ; 
before  the  light  of  morning  crept  into  that  low  room  where  he 
lay  it  would  be  decided;  and  the  hours  seemed  like  a  lifetime 
to  the  two  men  who  watched  beside  him. 


140      A  FEW  MINUTES'  QUIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  FEW  MINUTES'  QUIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN. 

"  Many  a  shaft  at  random  sent, 

Finds  mark  the  archer  little  meant  ; 
And  many  a  word  at  random  spoken, 
May  heal  or  wound  a  heart  that's  broken." 

"  Is  your  master  down  ?"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  as  he  came 
upon  the  tidy  maid  next  morning  sweeping  the  steps  of  the 
Parsonage  piazza. 

"  Not  yet,  sir,"  she  answered,  pausing  as  he  passed,  with  a 
very  pleasant,  blushy  smile.  "  It  is  half  an  hour  to  breakfast- 
time.  No  one  is  down  but  Master  Julian." 

"  And  where  is  he  ?"  Dr.  Catherwood  turned  shortly  round 
and  spoke  with  something  pained  and  hurried  in  his  tone. 

"  Gone  off  to  fish,  I  think,  sir ;  I  saw  he  had  a  pole  and 
creel.  Most  likely  he  is  at  the  brook." 

"  Send  him  to  me,  will  you,  if  he  returns  before  the  family 
come  down  ?"  he  said,  going  on  into  the  house. 

The  windows  of  the  parlor  were  all  open,  the  cool  morning 
breeze  was  waving  the  white  curtains,  the  room  was  all  in  order, 
all  fresh  from  Ann's  feather  brush  and  tidying  touch.  There 
was  no  trace  of  its  inhabitants  of  the  night  before ,  the  cush 
ions  of  the  sofa  were  shaken  out  and  smoothed,  and  laid  ex 
actly  in  their  places ;  the  books  upon  the  table  were  lying  at 
right  angles  with  the  edges  ;  Christine's  work-box  was  shut,  and 
the  piano  was  closed  and  the  music-rack  was  in  good  order ;  in 
fact,  the  room  looked  as  if  it  were  asleep  or  in  a  happy  trance. 
Dr.  Catherwood  threw  himself  upon  the  sofa  and  pushed  the 


* 

A  FEW  MINUTES'  QUIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN.    141 

cushion  under  his  head.  He  was  tired,  though  he  did  not  care 
to  acknowledge  it.  Even  the  most  perfect  physique  feels  a  lit 
tle  languor  under  the  trial  of  a  sleepless  night  and  intense  men 
tal  activity  for  many  hours. 

Half  an  hour  to  breakfast,  he  thought,  as  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
clock ;  that  was  a  real  annoyance,  for  he  was  hungry,  and  had 
no  time  to  lose,  besides.  What  should  he  do  ?  Why,  wait  of 
course ;  and  so  his  troubled  eye  closed,  and  his  knit  forehead 
smoothed  itself  out,  and  he  slept  profoundly. 

Christine  coming  down  presently,  gave  a  start  and  almost 
dropped  the  vase  of  flowers  she  held,  as  she  caught  sight  of 
him  asleep  upon  the  sofa.  She  came  in  softly  after  a  moment, 
darkened  the  blinds  a  little,  threw  a  sofa  blanket  over  him,  and 
stole  away  to  the  piazza  to  watch  for  his  awaking  through  the 
window.  When  he  awoke,  it  was  to  see  her  face  watching  his 
through  the  white  curtains,  like  an  angel  looking  through  the 
clouds.  It  was  gone  like  a  gleam  of  light,  though ;  as  he  raised 
his  eyes,  he  called  "  Christine,"  and  presently  she  came  in  at 
the  door  looking  pale  and  frightened,  and  stopping  as  far  from 
the  sofa  as  she  could,  and  yet  be  in  the  room. 

"  Is  breakfast  ready  ?"  he  said,  not  getting  up,  but  throwing 
the  sofa  blanket  back. 

"  In  a  moment,"  she  said,  turning  and  about  to  disappear. 

"  Come  here,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Is  youi 
father  down  ?" 

"  No — that  is — I  believe  he  isn't  well  this  morning ;  he  will 
not  come  down." 

"  So  we  shall  take  our  breakfast  alone  together.  After  you 
ring  the  bell  for  Ann,  come  here ;  I  want  to  see  you,  as  I  said." 

Christine  went  across  the  room  and  rang  the  bell  for  Ann, 
and  then  came  and  sat  down  beside  him.  Madeline  would  have 
been  very  much  shocked  that  he  did  not  rise,  only  passed  his 
hand  through  his  hair  and  pushed  the  sofa  cushion  a  little 
higher,  and  lay  looking  at  Christine,  who  sat  before  him  with  a 


142     A  FEW  MINUTES'  QUIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN. 

curious  expression.  "  I  am  desperately  tired,"  lie  said,  pulling 
out  his  watch.  "  I  must  have  been  asleep  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  ;  how  long  since  you  came  down  ?" 

"  About  that  time,"  Christine  said,  faintly. 

"  And  you  have  been  waiting  for  me  ?  Why  did  you  not 
wake  me  up  ?" 

"  Why  ?  I  was  very  glad  that  you  should  have  some  sleep ; 
I  knew  you  must  be  tired." 

"But  if  you  will  tell  the  truth,  you  will  say  you  were  very 
glad  when  I  waked  up ;  you  know  you  want  to  hear  how  the 
boy  is,  though  you  do  not  dare  to  ask  me." 

"  I  know  you  would  not  be  here  if  he  were  not  better,"  she 
said,  half  reassured  by  his  quiet  manner,  though  not  quite  able 
yet  to  banish  doubt. 

"  Well,  Christine,  thank  God,  he  is  better,"  said  her  compa 
nion  with  a  sudden  movement,  rising  and  taking  her  hand  in 
his.  "  Heaviness  has  endured  for  a  night ;  you  and  I  never 
will  forget." 

For  a  moment  the  tears  swam  in  Christine's  eyes.  "  Voyons," 
he  said,  in  a  changed  tone,  letting  go  her  hand  and  turning  to 
the  window,  "  ring  again  for  Ann ;  I  am  not  only  tired  but 
hungry." 

"Ann  is  coming,"  Christine  said,  going  to  the  table  quickly 
and  bending  down  to  make  the  tea.  Ann  put  the  biscuits  and 
the  omelette,  and  the  thin  slices  of  pink  ham  upon  the  table, 
and  placing  a  chair  said :  "  Shall  I  call  Dr.  Catherwood, 
Miss  ?" 

Ann  was  rather  sentimental  about  the  visitor  and  her  young 
mistress;  she  and  the  laundry-maid  were  quite  agreed  that 
something  would  come  of  it.  She  always  watched  Christine 
very  sharply  when  Dr.  Catherwood  was  there,  and  she  saw  that 
there  were  tears  upon  her  eyelashes  as  she  said  yes,  and  sat 
down. 

They  had  their  breakfast  quite  en  Ute-d-tete.     Julian  did  not 


A  FEW  MINUTES'  QTJIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN.      143 

come  in,  and  while  Ann  went  up  stairs  to  take  a  biscuit  and  a 
cup  of  coffee  to  her  master's  room,  Dr.  Catherwood  said  : 

"  Send  away  Ann,  will  you  ?  I  want  to  have  a  few  minutes' 
quiet  talk  with  you  about  Julian,  while  I  am  finishing  my 
breakfast." 

A  few  minutes'  quiet  talk  about  Julian !  A  few  minutes'  quiet 
talk  about  the  sword  that  was  flashing  above  her  head  swaying 
by  a  hair  ;  a  few  minutes'  quiet  talk  about  the  pain  that  swelled 
her  heart  to  bursting  at  the  mention  of  his  name.  Dr.  Cather 
wood  knew  that  she  had  eaten  all  the  breakfast  that  she  could 
before  he  spoke,  and  this  time  was  as  good  as  any  other.  So 
after  Ann  was  sent  away  with  an  intelligent  ^elevation  of  the 
eyebrows,  as  she  softly  closed  the  door,  he  said  in  an  easy  tone, 
though  not  a  trifling  one,  as  he  pushed  his  plate  of  fruit  back 
and  leaned  forward  on  his  arm  : 

"  Julian's  a  bad  boy,  Christine,  there  is  no  denying  it,  and  I 
have  been  thinking  latterly  you  could  not  do  a  better  thing 
than  to  send  him  away  to  school.  He's  fourteen  now,  and  he 
needs  more  discipline  than  he  can  get  at  home.  I  do  not  think 
his  companions  here  are  altogether  the  most  improving  for  him, 
and  though  I  like  Mr.  Brockhulst  very  much,  I  do  not  think 
him  particularly  well  fitted  to  manage  such  a  boy  as  Julian.  I 
have  thought  about  it  a  good  deal ;  it  is  no  new  idea,  and  this 
last  escapade  has  only  confirmed  me  in  it.  Your  father,  I  fancy, 
would  approve  of  it." 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  Christine,  quickly ;  "  I  hope  you  will 
not  speak  to  him  about  it.  Julian  cannot  go  away  from  home  ; 
it  is  utterly  impossible." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  surprised  at 
her  decision.  "  You  do  not  think  it  would  benefit  him  ?" 

"  There  are  reasons  that  make  it  utterly  out  of  the  question," 
she  returned,  hastily — then  paused  and  looked  up  in  alarm  lest 
she  had  been  rude. 

"  Suppose  you  tell  me  what  they  are,"  he  said,  with  a  smile, 


144        A  FEW   MINUTES     QUIET   TALK   ABOUT  JULIAN. 

meeting  her  eye.  "  We  are  en  rapport  about  this  matter,  are 
we  not?  and  I  cannot  even  conjecture  why  you  feel  so  about 
his  leaving  you." 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Christine,  looking 
troubled. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  save  you  the  trouble.  Is  it  because  you 
cannot  bear  to  part  with  him  ?  That  would  do  for  a  mother  to 
say,  but  not  for  you.  You  love  Julian  faithfully  and  dutifully, 
but  he  does  not  add  to  the  pleasure  of  your  life.  You  would 
be  much  younger  and  lighter-hearted  if  he  were  away  from  you 
a  while.  He  is  a  great,  a  wearing,  a  constant  trial  to  you." 

Christine  frowned  and  turned  her  face  away ;  she  felt  that  no 
one  had  a  right  to  say  that  to  her. 

"Besides,  it  would  be  a  weakness  I  should  regret  to  see  in 
you,  keeping  him  by  you  to  save  yourself  from  any  silly  scruple 
or  uneasiness  about  him.  By-and-by  he  must  leave  you ; 
whether  for  his  good  or  evil.  He  cannot  or  will  not  stay  always 
at  home.  You  will  do  well  to  anticipate  the  necessity  and  send 
him  when  it  may  be  of  benefit  to  him." 

"  He  will  not  go  till  he  is  old  enough  to  do  without  me,  and 
to  know  how  to  defend  himself  against — against — " 

O  O 

"  Against  whom  ?  They  tell  you  dreadful  stories  about 
schoolboys,  no  doubt,  but  you  must  remember  they  are  not 
many  of  them  founded  on  fact.  I  have  been  a  boy  myself, 
yon  know ;  ever  so  long  ago,  to  be  sure,  but  not  so  long  but 
that  I  can  remember  how  many  boys  I  thrashed,  and  how  many 
boys  thrashed  me.  Julian  is  able  to  take  care  of  himself, 
depend  upon  it.  He  will  be  cock  of  the  walk  before  he  has 
been  at  school  a  month ;  he  will  need  no  one  to  defend  him." 

"  I  am  not  so  foolish,  Dr.  Catherwood.  I  am  not  thinking 
about  that.  I  know  Julian  will  not  suffer  as  much  as  most  boys 
in  that  way.  It  is  not  that  I  mean.  You  cannot  understand 
me.  The  reasons  that  make  it  impossible  to  send  Julian  away 
would  apply  to  no  other  child  on  earth — he  is  one  alone  by 


A  FEW  MINUTES'  QUIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN.      145 

himself,  poor  boy.  He  must  never  go  away  from  here  till  he 
is  a  man.  He  has  a  home,  though  he  lacks  all  else  that  other 
children  have." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  her  companion,  with  hesitation  and  anxiety ; 
"  you  cannot  mean — I  am  afraid  this  seems  unwarrantable — 
but  you  know  how  deep  the  interest  that  I  feel — it  is  not  possi 
ble  that  the  expenses  of  his  education  are  any  difficulty.  For 
give  rne  for  asking,  Christine — but  I  had  always  understood — I 
had  never  had  a  doubt — his — his  mother's  fortune  was  ample 
for  all  that." 

»  Christine  colored  a  little,  then  forced  herself  to  speak.  "I 
am  sure  if  any  one  has  a  right  to  know,  you  have,  Dr.  Cather- 
wood.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before,  perhaps,  but  everything 
connected  with — with  that  time,  is  so  painful.  He  has  not  any 
thing,  I  suppose;  all  the  money  went  before  they  came  to  us. 
But  that  would  never  be  a  difficulty.  What  they  call  mine, 
you  know,  is  just  the  same  as  his.  I  should  never  have  used 
a  quarter  of  it,  even  if  I  had  not  promised  he  should  have  the 
half." 

"Promised,"  said  her  companion,  raising  his  head;  "pro- 
mis"ed  whom  ?" 

"  Helena — my  sister — his  mother,"  she  returned,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  And  your  father  consented  to  this  ?"  he  said,  rising  and 
walking  backward  and  forward  through  the  room  and  stopping 
before  her. 

"My  father  knows  nothing  about  it,"  she  said,  looking  up 
quickly  ;  "  and  that  is  what  I  want  to  say,  you  must  never  speak 
to  him  about  it ;  I  said  he  should  never  know." 

"  Ah  !"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  that  is  all  right.  I 
shall  never  mention  it  to  him,  you-may  be  sure." 

There  was  a  pause,  while  Dr.  Catherwood  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  and  Christine  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the 
table. 

7 


146      A  FEW  MINUTES'  QUIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments  standing  and  looking 
out  of  the  window,  his  face  away  from  her,  "  then,  is  it  that  you 
do  not  want  to  go  to  him  about  it,  and  make  any  confession  of 
your  promise?  Because  I  could  arrange  it  for  you,  if  you 
chose,  without  any  necessity  of  speaking  to  him  on  that  matter." 

"  It  is  not  that,"  said  Christine,  speaking  as  if  it  cost  her  a 
great  effort ;  "  my  father  would  not  spare  anything  in  educat 
ing  Julian.  He  knows  how  I  would  feel,  and  his  own  income 
is  sufficient  to  give  him  every  advantage.  lie  shall  have  a 
tutor ;  he  shall  not  be  neglected  ;  but  he  must  not  go  away 
from  home.  I  cannot  break  my  promise."  « 

Her  companion  turned  suddenly  towards  her,  but  averted  his 
face  again  without  speaking. 

"  I  wish  you  knew,  and  I  did  not  have  to  tell  you,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  that  sounded  very  plaintive ;  "  I  want  you  to  know 
all  about  him,  but  it  hurts  me  so  to  think  it  over,  much  more  to 
talk  of  it  to  any  one.  We  have  been  very  unhappy  here,  Dr. 
Catherwood,  though  we  all  seem  well  enough  now.  I  am  the 
only  one  left  of  a  great  many  that  were  a  great  deal  better  and 
more  lovely;  and  the  best,  the  most  beautiful  of  all,  had  better 
have  died  when  she  was  a  little  child  like  the  others,  than  h'ave 
lived  to  see  the  misery  she  did.  That  was  Julian's  mother,  the 
oldest  of  all,  and  my  father's  darling.  Oh,  if  I  had  only  died 
in  her  place,  and  left  her  to  comfort  him  and  to  take  care  of 
Julian !  But  that  could  not  be,  and  I  must  try  to  do  the  best  I 
can  for  them.  What  made  her  misery  was — well,  it  was  the 
worst  thing  that  can  happen  to  a  woman — an  unhappy  mar 
riage;  a  marriage  to  a  man  that  hated,  and  ill-treated,  and  per 
secuted  her.  Oh,  I  shudder  at  his  very  name !  I  dread  to 
think  poor  Julian  must  ever  know  it.  I  would  give  anything 
if  I  could  spare  him  the  misery  of  knowing  what  his  father 
was.  Such  cruelty  it  was  that  killed  Helena — it  was  that  that 
drove  her  about  the  world  trying  to  hide  her  boy  from  him.  It 
was  that  that  made  her  pet  and  pamper  Julian,  dreading  the 


A    FEW    MINUTES'    QUIET   TALK    ABOUT   JULIAN.         147 

day  he  might  be  stolen  from  her ;  and  it  was  that  that  made 
her  make  me  promise  I  never  would  lose  sight  of  him  till  he 
was  a  man.  I  would  watch  over  him  night  and  da}7,  and  keep 
him  from  his  father.  That  was  my  promise.  No  considera 
tion  can  possibly  induce  me  to  break  through  it.  I  know  you 
will  not  try  to  do  it.  I  am  sure  you  will  help  me  do  my 
duty,  and  not  try  to  make  it  hard  to  me.  Julian  must  stay  at 
home,  as  his  mother  said  he  must,  and  I  must  watch  him  as  I 
said  I  would.  Here  he  is  almost  safe,  if  anywhere.  That 
man,  whom  I  have  to  call  his  father,  has  been  led  to  think  he 
never  came  back  here ;  that  Helena  left  him  at  a  school  in 
Germany.  He  would  not  look  for  him  here;  he  would  not 
know  him  if  he  saw  him,  he  is  so  altered  ;  his  name  is  dropped 
completely,  and,  besides,  bad  and  daring  as  the  man  has  always 
been,  he  would  not  dare  to  come  and  claim  him  out  of  his 
grandfather's  house — out  of  the  refuge  his  poor  mother  brought 
him  to  when  she  was  flying  from  his  wickedness  and  cruelty. 
If  he  were  away  at  some  strange  place,  there  is  no  knowing 
what  might  happen.  So  you  see  you  must  not  talk  to  me  about 
letting  him  go  away ;  it  is  impossible.  You  have  often  told 
me  not  to  worry  about  Julian ;  now  you  see  I  cannot  help  it. 
I  am  very  sorry  I  never  told  you  before.  I  have  often  wanted 
to,  but  I  never  could  make  up  my  inind.  You  know  now  what 
is  my  life's  work,  my  life's  duty,  Dr.  Catherwood,  to  hide  Julian 
from  his  father,  and  to  make  up  to  him  in  some  way  for  the 
misfortune  of  his  birth." 

There  was  a  moment's  perfect  silence ;  Christine  sat  looking 
before  her  without  moving,  a  flush  upon  her  cheek,  and  with  a 
resolved,  womanly  look. 

Dr.  Catherwood,  when  at  last  he  turned  from  the  window, 
looked  very  pale  and  stern ;  even  his  lips  were  ashy,  and  there 
was  a  blue  line  around  them  as  he  spoke  : 

"  We  will  not  talk  any  more  about  it  now,"  he  said,  going 
into  the  room  beyond.  "  Perhaps  it  will  be  best  for  you  to  keep 


148      A  PEW  MINUTES'  QUIET  TALK  ABOUT  JULIAN. 

him  with  you ;  you  know  I  cannot  judge.  I  must  now  go  to 
Harry.  Tell  your  father  I  was  sorry  not  to  see  him  this  morn 
ing  ;  if  he  needs  me  he  will  send  me  word,  I  know." 

Christine  sat  silent  for  several  minutes  after  he  had  ceased 
speaking  before  she  realized  that  he  had  gone ;  then  she  looked 
up  and  started.  There  was  something  in  his  manner,  though 
she  had  not  seen  his  face,  that  had  made  her  feel  he  had  been 
displeased  with  what  she  said,  and  yet  she  knew  she  had  done 
right  to  say  it.  And  there  was  something  more  that  she  was 
trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  say  ;  she  had  looked  up  with 
the  words  upon  her  lips,  when  she  found  that  he  had  gone. 
This  young  girl  had  a  very  sacred  idea  of  friendship  ;  she  felt 
that  she  owed  it  to  Dr.  Catherwood,  who  was  her  best  and 
truest  friend,  to  tell  him  all  about  Helena  and  the  promise  she 
had  made  to  her,  and  there  could  be  no  better  time  than  now. 
It  was  not  very  important,  but  she  should  feel  better  if  he  knew 
it  all,  and  he  would  understand  her  better,  and  her  position  in 
society.  He  had  spoken  to  her  several  times  about  the  world 
and  the  men  she  would  meet  in  it,  as  she  knew  he  would  not 
have  spoken  if  he  had  known  all.  He  had  told  her  one  day 
she  must  not  marry  any  of  the  silly  boys  whom  Madeline  had 
around  her ;  and  that  Mr.  Brockhulst  even  was  too  young  and 
immature  to  be  a  lover  fit  for  her.  Such  things  made  her  un 
comfortable  when  they  came  from  him,  even  though  he  said 
them  carelessly,  for  she  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  know  all,  and 
that  she  was  not  quite  honest  in  keeping  silence  about  anything 
that  would  influence  her  life  so  much,  even  though  it  gave  her 
the  greatest  pain  to  speak  of  it.  He  should  know  all  about  it, 
the  very  first  moment  that  she  was  alone  with  him,  she  re 
solved  ;  getting  up  and  going  to  her  father's  room  with  the  paper 
in  her  hand,  pausing  to  say  one  thankful  prayer  for  Harry  Gil- 
more  as  she  passed  the  sunny  window  of  the  upper  hall  that 
opened  on  the  garden. 


A   DANGER   AVERTED.  149 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A     DANGER     AVERTED. 

"  Our  many  deeds,  the  thoughts  that  we  have  thought, 
They  go  out  from  us  thronging  every  hour ; 
And  in  them  all  is  folded  up  a  power 
That  on  the  earth  doth  move  them  to  and  fro  ; 
And  mighty  are  the  marvels  they  have  wrought, 

In  hearts  we  know  not,  and  may  never  know." 

FADER. 

DR.  UPHAM  did  not  leave  his  room  for  a  day  or  two  after  this ; 
he  wondered  a  great  many  times  why  Catherwood  did  not  come 
in,  and  Christine  wondered  too,  though  she  did  not  say  anything 
about  it.  She  had  met  him  once  or  twice  at  the  miller's  cot 
tage,  where  she  went  a  great  many  times  every  day,  and  he 
had  been  very  kind,  though  always  in  a  hurry,  and  she  had  not 
had  the  courage  to  ask  him  why  he  did  not  come ;  it  was  a 
thing  so  openly  absurd  to  ask  him  to  come  to  the  Parsonage, 
which  was  exactly  like  his  home  to  him.  lie  had  said  the  last 
time  as  he  went  out  of  Harry's  room,  "  I'm  sorry  Dr.  Upham 
isn't  better;  if  he  needs  me,  I  know  he  will  send  me  word." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  sickness  in  the  neighborhood,  it  is 
true;  the  Doctor's  two  horses  were  getting  some  hard  work; 
all  the  babies  within  ten  miles  were  taking  advantage  of  this 
bad  August  weather  to  cut  their  teeth  and  to  be  very  ill ;  but 
there  had  been  a  month  of  diphtheria  early  in  the  season,  and 
Dr.  Catherwood  had  always  found  time  to  be  at  the  Parsonage 
at  least  once  a  day,  and  to  take  one  meal  out  of  every  three  at 
the  table  there. 

So  Christine  wondered  and  felt  very  unhappy,  and  thought 


150  A   DANGER    AVERTED. 

herself  an  ingrate  when  she  looked  at  Harry  Gilmore  and  saw 
that  he  was  getting  well.  A  few  days  ago  she  had  thought 
if  Harry  got  well  there  would  be  nothing  else  to  wish  for  in 
the  world ;  now  he  was  getting  well,  and  her  heart  was  heavy 
with  a  trouble  she  could  not  even  understand.  She  tried  to 
relieve  her  conscience  by  being  very  kind  and  attentive  to 
Harry,  taking  him  nice  things  from  the  Parsonage,  getting  him 
new  books,  and  knives,  and  pictures,  and  sitting  by  him  for 
hours  and  reading  to  him.  All  these  attentions  Mrs.  Gilmore 
received  in  a  silent  and  ungracious  manner,  and  with  a  gleam 
of  the  eye  that  was  even  more  than  ungracious.  Christine  did 
not  understand  it,  but  it  made  her  very  uncomfortable,  and 
going  down  to  the  cottage  became  a  dreaded  business. 

There  were  occasionally  one  or  two  neighbors  sitting  there, 
very  straight  in  their  chairs,  with  their  best  shawls  on,  and 
Christine  thought  they  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  one  of  the 
Borgias.  It  was  very  likely  they  did,  for  the  village  was  all 
aflame  on  the  subject  of  Julian's  crime,  but  of  course  nothing 
came  to  Christine's  ears.  And  Dr.  Upham's  temporary  illness 
had  kept  him  from  all  knowledge  of  the  story,  for  Christine 
had  not  had  the  courage  to  tell  him  of  it,  nor  indeed  the  heart 
to  worry  him  with  it  while  he  was  suffering  so  much  in  body. 
She  had  followed  Dr.  Catherwood's  advice  and  had  not  said 
anything  to  Julian,  leaving  it  for  him  to  do,  and  he  had  not 
done  it,  she  was  almost  sure.  Julian  had  been  more  than 
usually  restless  and  unruly.  Crescens  and  he  had  had  many 
fierce  encounters,  and  Christine  with  a  shudder  had  heard  him 
answer  one  of  the  servants  with  a  rude  and  mocking  laugh 
who  had  asked  him  if  he  wasn't  ashamed  of  himself  to  be 
acting  so  when  Harry  Gilmore  lay  half  dead  from  what  he'd 
done  to  him.  She  could  only  be  silent  and  pray  with  a  very 
heavy  heart. 

At  last,  one  evening,  the  third  after  these  occurrences,  when 
Christine  took  her  father's  cup  of  tea  up  to  him,  he  said,  turn- 


A    DANGER    AVERTED.  151 

ing  a  little  restlessly  in  his  arm-chair:  "I  do  not  see  why 
Catherwood  does  not  come  ;  I  think  I  should  like  to  see  him. 
I  do  not  quite  understand  this  pain.  Ring  for  Ann  and  let  her 
go  down  for  him." 

Christine  rang  for  Ann  and  sent  her  down  to  the  Doctor's 
cottage.  The  Doctor  was  at  home,  lying  at  half  length  on  the 
cane  sofa  of  the  porch,  smoking  a  lazy  cigar  after  the  day's 
work,  and  listening  to  the  rush  of  the  water  over  the  dam. 
He  did  not  move  when  he  saw  Ann  coming  down  the  path, 
only  said  :  "  Well,  Ann  ?"  when  she  paused  at  the  step,  and 
slowly  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth. 

Ann  delivered  her  message  with  the  peculiar  blushiness  of 
pretty  servant  maids  when  they  have  messages  to  deliver  to 
nice  gentlemen,  and  Dr.  Catherwood  in  return  smiled  a  little 
and  said  :  "  Tell  Doctor  Upham  I  will  come  up  presently." 

He  smoked  his  cigar  quite  out,  and  lay  listening  to  the  water 
for  a  while  after  he  had  thrown  it  from  him,  then  walked  up 
and  down  the  path  several  times  before  he  went  into  the  house 
and  rang  the  bell.  Rebekah,  a  silent,  sturdy  machine  of  a 
housekeeper,  brought  the  lamp,  and  placed  the  tea  upon  the 
table  in  the  little  parlor,  and  withdrew.  He  poured  out  first 
one  cup  and  then  another,  and  drank  them  slowly.  Rebekah 
came  in  and  laid  the  evening  paper  on  the  table ;  he  did 
not  unfold  it,  but  at  last  got  up,  rang  the  bell,  and  left  the 
house. 

The  fields  at  evening ! — how  sweet  and  thoughtful  and  calm 
they  were !  He  crossed  them  slowly,  and  went  in  at  the  Par 
sonage  gate  just  as  Ann  was  pulling  the  hall  lamp  down  to 
light  it.  There  was  no  light  in  the  parlor ;  Dr.  Catherwood 
looked  in,  and  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Brockhulst  walking  up  and 
down,  and  looking  rather  disturbed  and  uncomfortable. 

"Oh,  good  evening,"  the  latter  said,  stopping  as  he  saw  the 
new-comer.  "  I  was  waiting  till  you  came.  Miss  Upham  said 
perhaps  her  father  had  better  sec  you  first  before  I  went  up- 


152  A    DANGER    AVEKTED. 

stairs,  but  if  he  is  any  more  unwell,  perhaps  I  had  better  post 
pone  my  business  ;  to-morrow  will  do  just  as  well." 

There  was  something  in  Mr.  Brockhulst's  manner  that  said 
his  business  was  very  disagreeable,  and  he  would  be  very  glad 
to  postpone  it  himself  if  there  were  any  excuse  for  doing  so, 
and  Dr.  Catherwood  began  immediately  to  conjecture  of  what 
it  treated.  Could  it  be  Julian  ?  Mr.  Brockhulst  had  the  air 
of  one  who  acts  on  the  defensive,  so  Dr.  Catherwood  said,  seat 
ing  himself : 

"  I  have  not  seen  Dr.  Upham  for  several  days.  I  do  not 
know  how  much  amiss  he  is.  If  you  want  to  see  him  on  any 
parish  business,  no  doubt  he  can  attend  to  it ;  such  matters  are 
not  apt  to  trouble  him,  I  think.  The  Doctor  has  a  very  clear 
head ;  I  have  seen  him  go  through  a  great  deal  of  hard  think 
ing  when  he  was  suffering  very  acute  pain." 

"  It  is  nothing  in  regard  to  parish  business,"  said  Mr.  Brock 
hulst,  uncomfortably  and  with  an  evasive  manner.  "  But,  I 
think,  very  possibly,  it  will  be  better  to  put  off  my  interview 
till  morning.  I  should  like  to  see  him  before  school-time.  I 
will  call,  I  think,  a  little  after  eight." 

"  Apropos"  said  his  companion,  now  quite  certain  what  the 
business  was,  "what  progress  does  Julian  seem  to  make?  I 
have  often  meant  to  ask  you ;  he  is  a  bright  boy  ;  I  have 
noticed  him  a  good  deal ;  but  very  difficult  to  manage,  I  should 
apprehend." 

"  It  is  of  him  I  am  come  to  speak  to  Dr.  Upham,"  he  said, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  plan.  "  Dr.  Catherwood,  I  am  very 
unpleasantly  fixed  about  that  boy." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  Doctor,  with  mild  interest. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  the  young  minister,  sitting  down  beside 
him,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  resolution  ;  "  the  fact  is,  Dr. 
Catherwood,  I  have  determined  that  that  boy  shall  be  taken  away 
from  the  school.  I  am  willing  his  grandfather  should  put  it  in 
any  shape  he  pleases.  I  do  not  want  to  make  unpleasant  feel- 


A   DANGEli   AVEETED.  153 

ing,  but  I  will  not  be  troubled  with  him  any  longer.     I  might 
as  well  give  up  my  school  at  once." 

"That  is  unfortunate,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood ;  "as  you  say» 
it  puts  you  in  a  very  unpleasant  position  ;  you  being,  as  it  were* 
merely  an  assistant  to  the  Rector,  and  he  having  planned  the 
school  and  being  so  long  a  teacher  of  one  himself." 

"  As  to  that,"  returned  the  younger  man,  with  a  touch  of 
asperity  in  his  tone,  "  there  may  be  many  ways  of  looking  at  it." 

"  And,"  continued  Dr.  Catherwood,  without  noticing  the  in 
terruption,  "I  can  understand  how  you  feel  about  the  impolicy 
of  offending  any  of  the  Doctor's  friends  among  the  vestry,  such 
things  are  always  so  much  magnified.  I  am  afraid  there  would 
be  a  great  clamor  made.  But  if  it  is  necessary — if  the  boy 
has  done  anything  that  cannot  be  overlooked,  of  course  such 
considerations  fall  to  the  ground  entirely.  You  must  sacrifice 
your  own  interests  to  the  interests  of  the  school." 

"  I  cannot  think  Dr.  Upham  would  be  unreasonable,"  said 
the  other,  "  if  I  explained  all  to  him  ;  I  feel  certain  he  will 
remove  the  boy  without  making  any  noise  about  it." 

"It  may  be  so,"  returned  Dr.  Catherwood  ;  but,  lowering  his 
voice,  "  I  will  say  to  you  what  has  come  to  my  knowledge,  use 
it  as  you  please ;  Julian  is  to  be  educated  at  home.  It  is  not 
intended  to  send  him  away  till  he  is  of  age ;  so  that  if  he  can 
no  longer  be  under  your  tuition  he  will  probably  have  a  mas 
ter  in  the  house.  This,  of  course,  would  draw  a  good  deal  of 
attention  to  the  change ;  and  as  Dr.  Upham  was  instrumental 
in  procuring  scholars  for  you  and  furthering  your  plans,  there 
would  be  a  good  deal  said  about  the  fact  of  his  grandson's 
being  sent  away  as  soon  as  the  class  was  well  established."  . 

"  I  cannot  help  that,"  he  said,  resolutely.  "  Dr.  Upham  will 
be  certain  to  agree  with  me  when  he  knows  all  I  have  had  to 
undergo." 

"Oh,  of  coufrse,  if  there  is  anything  flagrant,  anything  that 
cannot  be  overlooked,  as  I  said,  your  excuse  would  be  accepted 

V* 


154  A   DANGER    AVERTED. 

by  those  concerned,  whatever  the  world  may  say.  Julian  is  a 
trying  boy.  I  have  no  doubt  but  I  think  he  may  be  managed, 
if  things  are  started  right.  He  is  wilful,  you  see,  and  turbu 
lent,  but  I  have  never  seen  the  boy  yet  who  was  not  to  be  led 
by  a  judicious  flattery.  Besides,  one  is  apt  to  overrate  such 
faults  as  his ;  now,  for  instance,  about  this  little  affair  with 
Harry  Gilmore " 

"  Yes,  about  that,"  said  the  clergyman,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed 
excitement.  "  It  would  be  difficult  to  overrate  that,  I  think." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  with  firmness,  "it 
would  be  difficult  to  place  it  at  its  real  value,  having  had  such 
unfortunate  results.  But  there  are  not  two  boys  wrestling  in 
your  playground  at  recess  every  day,  who  do  not  commit  as 
serious  a  fault,  only  there  is  no  precipice  over  which  one  may 
push  the  other ;  and  the  lucky  boy  who  manages  to  keep  upper 
most  gets  nothing  but  a  lecture  from  his  mother  for  his  damaged 
pantaloons.  Consequences  are  not  always  true  corollaries. 
Motives,  I  think,  are  admitted  to  have  a  certain  weight,  if  not 
in  law,  at  least  in  morals.  A  boy  of  twelve  has  a  right  to  all 
the  doubt  that  can  exist  in  his  judge's  mind ;  and  if  his  judge 
has  been  a  boy  himself  within  ten  or  twenty  years,  he  will  not 
find  it  difficult  to  excuse  the  hasty  blow,  the  animal  instinct  of 
defence,  the  brute  delight  in  strength,  the  blind  and  uncalculat- 
ing  triumph.  Harry  Gilmore  is  as  much  to  blame  as  Julian 
TJpham ;  if  you  expel  one,  you  must  expel  both.  And  if  you 
expel  both,  Mr.  Brockhulst,  you  send  two  boys  out  into  the 
world  with  a  brand  upon  them  that  they  never  can  outgrow.  I 
have  watched  those  two;  I  know  how  nice  a  hand  they  need ; 
and  I  trust  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  say,  in  all  the  heavy  charge 
that  lies  upon  you,  there  is  no  heavier  and  no  holier  than  the 
charge  of  them.  Two  men,  honoring  or  dishonoring  their 
manhood,  will  look  back  to  this  time,  perhaps  through  life,  and 
bless  or  curse  you  for  the  bias  that  you  gave  them." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  broken  by  the  sound  of  a  foot 


A    DANGER    AVERTED.  155 

upon  the  piazza,  and  a  flutter  of  white  muslin  at  the  parlor 
door. 

"Ah,  Miss  Cly bourne!"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  rising  and 
meeting  her,  while  Mr.  Brockhulst  started  and  bowed  stiffly. 

"  Why,  what  a  darkness,"  said  Madeline,  coming  in  with  a 
little  hesitation.  "  Is  Christine  lost  anywhere  in  it  ?  or  are  you 
two  gentlemen  here  alone?" 

"  We  two  gentlemen  are  here  alone,"  returned  Dr.  Gather- 
wood,  with  a  smile. 

"A  pair  of  owls  in  the  belfry  could  not  be  dismaller;  I  hope 
you  bring  the  dawn  under  your  wings.  Ah,  and  there  comes 
Miss  Christine !" 

Christine  came  in,  and  Dr.  Catherwood,  after  a  few  words  to 
her,  excused  himself,  and  went  up-stairs,  and  left  the  clergyman 
with  the  young  ladies. 

In  five  minutes  also  the  clergyman  excused  himself  and 
went  away,  and  Madeline,  coloring  angrily  at  his  departure,  sat 
down  beside  the  window  and  begged  Christine  to  counter 
mand  the  order  for  the  lamp.  Christine  was  very  willing,  and 
the  two  ^sat  in  the  darkness  by  the  window,  looking  out  into 
the  dark  and  silent  garden. 

Madeline  was  very  impatient  and  very  much  out  of  humor 
with  everybody,  and  Christine  was  very  triste  and  quiet. 

"  Do  you  suppose  Dr.  Catherwood  means  to  spend  the  even 
ing  in  your  father's  room?"  said  Madeline,  at  last.  "For  if 
he  doesn't  come  down  soon  and  talk  to  me  I  shall  go  away. 
You  are  too  dull  to  be  endured,  Christine.  I  came  to  be 
amused  ;  I  have  had  the  gloomiest  three  days !  Wait  till  you 
have  to  stay  at  the  Hill  and  take  care  of  Mrs.  Sherman  through 
a  headache,  and  you  will  know  what  ennui  is.  I  should  not 
have  stayed  an  hour  if  mamma  had  not  made  me  :  entre  nous, 
Christine,  Mrs.  Sherman  is  a  selfish  old  affair,  and  only  cares 
for  us  because  we  make  her  some  amusement.  I  hope  it  may 
please  Heaven  to  remove  me  before  I  am  forty-five,  if  my  latter 


156  A    DANGER    AVERTED. 

end  roust  be  like  hers.  Why,  Christine,  she's  an  old  hypocrite  ; 
her  character  all  comes  to  pieces  like  her  body,  and  I  warn  you 
to  keep  away  from  her  dressing-room  and  sick-bed,  if  you  want 
to  preserve  your  reverence  for  her." 

"  Hush,"  said  Christine,  simply. 

"  No,  I  will  not.  Why  should  I  ?  Don't  you  suppose  she 
would  say  I  was  a  bad-tempered  girl  if  anybody  asked  her  ? 
She  will  not  think  there  is  any  necessity  for  being  honorable 
after  she  has  got  all  she  wants  out  of  me.  I've  eaten  of  her 
salt  to  be  sure,  but  I  only  ate  it  while  I  was  paying  her 
well  for  it.  You  think  it  is  necessary  to  be  so  grateful  ? 
Do  you  suppose  all  she  does  is  for  us?  No;  it  is  for  her 
self.  We  have  youth  and  spirits,  and  she  can't  buy  them 
with  all  her  money.  We  amuse  her  and  make  people  like 
her  house,  and  she  can't  spare  us.  She  is  useful  to  us  and 
gives  us  pleasure,  and  we're  useful  to  her  and  give  her  plea 
sure.  We  are  square.  I  do  not  afflict  myself." 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  afflict  yourself,  but  I  cannot  face  such 
things  as  those.  I  do  not  believe  I  am  more  easily  deceived 
than  you,  but  I  am  willing  to  try  not  to  see  what  makes 
me  despise  myself  and  other  people." 

"  No ;  I  really  believe  you  are  not  a  simpleton,  Christine, 
though  you  have  much  the  air  of  being  one.  Sometimes  I 
think  you  are  a  hypocrite,  which  is  rather  better  on  the  whole, 
though  not  quite  what  I  should  like  to  see  my  daughter,  if  I 
had  one,  as  Mrs.  Sherman  would  say.  What  a  blessed  Provi 
dence  that  she  hasn't  one  !  I  think  she  has  a  mind  to  adopt 
you,  Christine ;  she  found  I  was  too  many  for  her  the  second 
time  she  saw  me,  but  she  praises  you  ad  nauseam.  Oh,  to  hear 
her  talk  to  Colonel  Steele  about  you.  The  old  intriguer. 
I  believe  she  thinks  it's  next  best  to  having  a  lover  herself, 
to  secure  one  for  somebody  she  has  in  tow.  The  ruling 
passion  is  strong  yet.  And  the  Colonel,  I  firmly  think,  be 
lieves  he  is  certain  of  you,  arid  your  nice  little  property, 


A   DANGEIl   AVERTED.  157 

Christine,  don't  forget  that,  if  you  please.  You  are  very 
pretty  and  sweet,  and  if  I  were  a  man  I  think  I  should  lie 
tangled  in  that  auburn  hair  of  yours.  I  do  not  know  any 
eyes  that  would  please  me  half  as  well,  but  I've  heard,  men 
liked  pretty  fortunes  as  well  as  pretty  faces.  And  when  they 
come  together !  Oh  happy  Colonel  Steele !  He  thinks  his 
cup  of  happiness  is  full.  He  is  coming  to  the  Hill  on  Satur 
day,  and  you  are  to  be  invited  there  to  stay  over  Sunday. 
See  if  you  are  not.  I  heard  the  whole  arrangement  when 
he  went  away.  Mrs.  Sherman  thinks  I  am  such  a  fool ;  she 
flatters  me  about  him  and  pretends  she  thinks  he  likes  me. 
Well,  I  believe  he  does,  only  not  quite  as  well  as  he  does 
you.  He  might,  perhaps,  if  I  had  eighty  thousand  dollars. 
But  I  haven't,  dear.  I  have  got  to  marry  it,  instead  of  its 
marrying  me.  So  you  see  it's  a  question  of  trade  any  way ;  you 
are  to  be  bought  or  you  are  to  buy.  Oh,  pretty,  pleasant, 
happy  barter !  For  my  part,  Christine,  I  am  disillusionized. 
I  think  that  a  woman's  life  is  horridly  flat,  degrading." 

"  I  think  that  you  are  out  of  humor,"  said  Christine, 
simply. 

Madeline  gave  an  impatient  toss  to  the  branch  of  honey 
suckle  that  she  was  holding  in  her  hand  ;  it  fell  out  on  the 
dark  grass-plot  below  the  window,  and  then  Madeline  leaned 
forward  and  looked  after  it. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  am,"  she  said,  with  a  half  sigh.  "  I  ought 
to  believe  it,  for  I  am  told  so  every  hour  at  home  by  some 
one.  There  is  a  horrid  picture  of  a  shrew  in  an  old  spell 
ing-book  of  Raymond's.  It  would  not  surprise  me  in  the  least 
if  I  grew  to  look  exactly  like  it.  I  feel  the  likeness  creep 
ing  into  my  face  every  day.  I  went  to  the  glass  only  this 
morning  to  see  how  far  it  had  gone."  Christine  laughed  a 
little.  "  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  Madeline  said,  turn 
ing  to  her  abruptly.  "Don't  you  think  a  woman  is  a  fool 
who  submits  herself  and  her  fancies  to  the  direction  of  a  man 


158  A    DANGER    AVERTED. 

who  is  not  yet  her  lover?  He  has  no  right  to  say  what  she 
shall  do  and  what  she  shall  not.  It  is  no  concern  of  his 
whether  she  dances  or  sits  still,  whether  she  wears  pretty 
clothes  or  makes  herself  a  fright.  And  has  she  not  a  right 
to  resent  it,  if  he  shows  by  his  manner  disapproval  and  re 
sentment  ?" 

"  Why,  I  cannot  tell  exactly,"  said  Christine.  "  If  she  cares 
for  him  she  will  try  to  please  him,  and  if  he  cares  for  her,  he 
will  expect  it  of  her." 

"  But  it  is  presuming  in  him  to  expect  anything  of  her  till 
he  declares  himself  her  suitor,"  said  Madeline,  with  hauteur. 

"But  I  was  imagining  that  she  loved  him,"  said  the  other, 
"  and  then  she  could  not  help  trying  to  suit  his  fancy  ;  she 
would  naturally  give  up  what  he  did  not  like,  without  thinking 
anything  at  all  about  it." 

"Oh,  you  tiresome,  tiresome  innocent!"  cried  Madeline,  with 
impatience.  "  What  a  wife  you'll  make  !  Dear  limp,  abject 
creature  !  Happy  Colonel !  It  is  a  sharne  only  one  man  can 
marry  you ;  you  are  so  exactly  the  ideal  wife,  yon  could  consti 
tute  the  happiness  of  three  or  four.  There  comes  Dr.  Gather- 
wood.  I  mean  to  ask  him  if  he  does  not  think  you  the  perfect 
woman  nobly  planned.  Dr.  Cathervvood  !" 

Dr.  Cathervvood  was  passing  through  the  hall ;  he  did  not 
look  into  the  parlor,  and  it  is  quite  possible  that  he  did  not 
mean  to  do  it ;  but  Madeline's  gay  voice  obliged  him  to  turn 
towards  it,  and  he  entered  with  his  usual  pleasant  smile. 

Christine  had  only  time  to  say,  "  I  do  not  like  this,  Made 
line,"  in  a  tone  quite  the  reverse  of  limp  and  abject,  before  Dr. 
Catherwood  was  seated  beside  them,  and  Madeline,  roused,  ani 
mated,  and  coquettish,  was  repeating  to  him  the  questions  that 
she  threatened.  Was  not  Christine  the  perfect  woman  nobly 
planned  ?  Was  she  not  his,  every  man's  ideal  wife  ?  Could  a 
man  desire  anything  more  submissive,  enduring,  faithful,  tender, 
and  true  ?  Was  a  wife  to  be  thought  of  who  had  any  will  ? 


A   DAGGER   AVERTED.  159 

Was  anything  so  lovely  as  a  woman  without  prejudices — with 
out  temper — without  enthusiasm — and  wasn't  Colonel  Steele 
the  happiest  of  men  ? 

Fortunately  for  all,  Madeline  asked  so  many  questions  that 
no  one  man  could  answer  them  at  once,  and  Dr.  Catherwood 
was  cool  enough  to  make  a  choice. 

"  About  this  Colonel  Steele,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  looking 
into  Christine's  face,  "I  have  been  meaning  to  ask  something 
about  him.  It  seems  to  me  he  comes  very  often  to  the  Hill ; 
which  of  the  two  young  ladies  lays  a  claim  to  his  devotion  ?" 

"  Oh,  Christine,  sans  doute.  Christine  is  the  happy  victor, 
though  she  does  not  acknowledge  openly  the  fact.  As  for  me, 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge  conquests  when  I  make 
them ;  I  wear  all  my  scalps  ;  I  hope  to  have  dozens  at  my  belt ; 
but  the  ideal  woman  doesn't ;  the  ideal  woman  never  wants 
but  one." 

"  Then,  Miss  Christine  is  not  the  ideal  woman  ;  I  know  she 
has  ambition ;  I  know  she  is  glad  to  think  she  has  brought  the 
young  minister  to  her  feet,  as  well  as  the  military  gentleman  ; 
and  if  you  knew  all  that  I  know,  Miss  Clybourne,  you  would 
feel  sorry  for  the  parson,  if  you  do  not  feel  sorry  for  the  Colo 
nel.  One  of  them  will  be  a  very  miserable  man." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  cried  Madeline,  with  a  tinge  of  pique  in 
her  voice,  which  Dr.  Catherwood  was  happy  to  observe,  "  as  to 
that,  I  do  not  believe  it  will  be  fatal  in  one  case  or  the  other. 
The  Colonel  is  too  old  to  take  the  disease  in  its  severest  form, 
and  as  to  the  clergyman,  I  think  it  will  be  very  light ;  he  has 
had  it  once  already,  and  any  attack  coming  now  would  be 
merely  sympathetic." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Christine,  a  little  angrily. 

"  The  Colonel  is  a  marrying  man,  they  say,"  went  on  Dr. 
Catherwood,  gravely. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Madeline,  tartly,  "  that  is  well  understood." 

"  It  must  be  that  that  makes  me  like  him  so,"  said  Christine, 


160  A    DAXGEB   AVERTED. 

getting  up  and  going  towards  the  table.  "  He  is  so  much 
pleasanter  than  Mr.  Leslie  and  the  striplings  who  come  some 
times  to  the  Hill.  Ann,  you  may  bring  the  lamp  in  now." 

There  was  something  about  Christine  that  was  exasperating 
to  Madeline's  saucy  nature — a  something  that  was  growing,  too. 
She  evidently  had  had  enough  of  the  Steele  question,  and 
neant  to  table  it.  Dr.  Catherwood  had  never  seen  her  so  much 
the  woman  as  to-night. 

"  Well,"  cried  Madeline,  "  that  means  I  am  to  go,  for  I 
expressly  asked  that  the  lamp  should  not  be  brought  in  till  I 
went  away.  Dr.  Catherwood,  will  you  see  if  the  maid  is  wait 
ing  for  me  ?" 

"  The  maid  is,  Miss  Clybourne,  but  do  I  not  outrank  her  ? 
Let  me  take  you  home." 

Christine  watched  them  go  away  together;  then,  going  back 
into  the  parlor,  turned  down  the  lamp,  and  sat  alone  a  long 
while  in  the  darkness. 


A    MOMENT    OF    TEMPTATION.  161 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A    MOMENT    OF    TEMPTATION. 

"  The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 
And  calm,  and  self-possessed." 

LONGFELLOW. 

"  THEN  I  may  come  at  five  ?"  said  Colonel  Steele,  rising  and 
taking  his  straw  hat  from  among  the  books  and  flowers  upon 
the  table  in  the  Parsonage  parlor. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  the  Colonel  had  come  up  in  the  morn 
ing  train  ;  but  Mrs.  Sherman  had  to  communicate  to  him  the 
tidings  that  Christine  was  not  coming  to  spend  Sunday  at  the 
Hill.  She  did  not  wish  to  leave  her  father,  though  Mrs.  Sher 
man  feared  that  was  merely  an  excuse,  as  the  Rector  now  left 
his  room  and  seemed  as  well  as  usual. 

"  She  has  taken  alarm  at  something,  she  is  such  a  shy  crea 
ture,"  said  Mrs.  Sherman.  "  But  that  does  not  discourage  me ; 
it  only  shows  me  she  has  feeling  and  is  not  indifferent." 

The  Colonel  bit  his  lip  ;  he  was  not  inspired  with  the  same 
confidence.  He  assented,  however,  to  Mrs.  Sherman's  plan 
for  the  afternoon,  and  went  down  to  the  Parsonage  to  tell  Chris 
tine  they  were  coming  for  her  to  ride  at  five  o'clock. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Christine,  for  there  was  nothing  else  to  say  ; 
besides,  she  was  extremely  fond  of  riding,  and  never  felt  quite 
so  happy  as  when  on  a  horse's  back.  She  had  no  horse  of  her 
own  ;  Julian  had  fallen  heir  to  her  pony,  and  though  the  Rec 
tor  had  several  times  spoken  of  looking  out  for  a  saddle-hocse 


162  A    MOMENT    OF   TEMPTATION. 

for  her,  it  never  had  been  done,  and  one  of  the  many  favors 
that  were  in  Mrs.  Sherman's  gift  was  the  use  of  a  pretty  bay, 
who  trotted,  and  paced,  and  cantered  a  merveille,  and  seemed 
by  nature  designed  for  a  lady's  use.  Madeline  generally  rode 
a  black  horse  of  the  Judge's,  a  wild,  high-spirited  animal  no 
woman  ever  should  have  mounted.  Mr.  Leslie  took  his  chance 
among  the  farm  and  carriage-horses,  while  Colonel  Steele 
brought  his  own  horsp  with  him,  .as  became  a  Colonel  of  caval 
ry  and  a  gentleman  of  expensive  tastes  and  habits. 

"  Fatherj"  said  Christine,  that  afternoon,  opening  the  study 
door  a  little  way,  "if  Julian  does  not  come  in  at  six,  will  you 
remind  Crescens  to  go  for  him  ?  lie  was  only  to  stay  two 
hours  at  the  brook.  I  shall  not  be  back  till  seven  or  eight,  I 
fear.  I  am  going  to  ride,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  with  whom,  my  dear  ?"  said  the  Rector,  pushing  back 
his  chair  and  holding  out  his  hand.  Christine  came  in,  hold 
ing  up  her  habit,  and  tripping  a  little  among  its  folds,  as  she 
went  across  the  room. 

Dr.  Catherwood  was  sitting  by  her  father,  and  smiled  her  a 
pleasant  welcome.  She  had  not  seen  him  since  the  evening  of 
Wednesday,  when  he  went  home  with  Madeline. 

"With  whom  are  you  going?"  repeated  her  father,  looking 
affectionately  and  proudly  at  her  as  she  stood  beside  his  chair. 

"With  Madeline  and  the  gentleman  from  the  Hill,"  said 
Christine,  coloring.  "I  told  you  all  about  it  at  the  dinner- 
table,  father." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  forgot,"  he  returned ;  "  but  does  not  Mrs.  Sher 
man  go  with  you  ?  I  should  like  it  better." 

"Oh,  yes;  Mrs.  Sherman  goes  in  the  carriage.  I  did  not  fancy 
you  would  have  any  aversion  to  my  going,  but  if  you  have " 

"  No,  no,  my  child,  I  can  trust  yon.  I  am  afraid  you  can  guide 
yourself  better  than  I  can  guide  you.  Good-bye."  He  sighed 
as  she  stooped  to  kiss  him,  and  with  a  smile  to  Dr.  Catherwood 
wjent  out  of  the  room. 


A    MOMENT    OF   TEMPTATION.  163 

"  Catherwood,"  said  the  Rector,  uneasily,  after  the  door  had 
closed,  "  that  child  is  a  dreadful  burden  to  me ;  I  do  not  know 
what  to  do  for  her." 

Dr.  Catherwood  smiled.  "  Why  do  anything  for  her,  my 
dear  sir  ?  You  struck  a  mine  of  truth  when  you  said  she  could 
guide  herself.  I  never  saw  a  woman,  young  or  old,  better  fitted 
to  sustain  herself;  she  has  wonderful  strength,  young  as  she  is. 
I  know  she  is  entirely  to  be  trusted." 

"  Yes,  thank  God,"  said  the  father,  reverently ;  "  she  is  true 
and  pure.  But  the  world  is  strong  and  cunning — strong  and 
cruel ;  and  she  is  but  a  child.  Catherwood,"  and  he  turned  his 
eyes  upon  his  companion  earnestly,  "  I  wish  I  could  give  her  to 
a  good  man  before  I  die.  I  am  old  ;  time  is  going  fast.  Every 
year  I  feel,  before  the  next  comes  round,  she  and  the  boy  may 
be  alone,  without  a  relative,  a  friend  on  earth  to  look  to.  I 
have  no  ambition  for  her ;  she  has  more  money,  poor  child, 
than  she  needs.  I  want  to  give  her  to  a  true  and  honorable 
gentleman,  one  who  will  love  her  and  satisfy  her  heart;  who 
will  protect  her  and  shield  the  boy,  and  take  my  place  towards 
them  both — more  than  take  my  place,  perhaps ;  a  younger  man 
would  be  better  for  them,  would  know  better  how  to  guard 
them.  I  am  old  and  worn  out.  I  long  to  go;  this  only  holds 
me  back.  Christine  is  a  good  child,  Catherwood ;  she  would 
make  any  man  that  loves  her  happy.  She  surprises  me  every 
day  with  something  fine  and  sensible ;  her  mind  is  growing 
fast.  I  do  not  know  where  a  man  would  look  to  find  a  better 
wife ;  she  is  so  young  she  would  take  any  one  I  chose  for  her, 
and  love  him  I  am  sure.  I  do  not  ask  anything  for  her  but  af 
fection  and  protection ;  this  world's  favors  I  do  not  seek  for 
mine ;  I  look  only  for  a  man  upon  whose  honor  and  integrity 
I  can  rely  ;  a  man,  Catherwood,  whose  heart  I  have  read,  upon 
whose  age  and  judgment  I  feel  I  can  rely,  and  whose  life  I  know 
to  have  been  pure." 

There  was  a  pause ;   the  Rector  looked  earnestly  and  wist- 


164  A   MOMENT   OF   TEMPTATION. 

fullyinto  his  companion's  face;  there  was  no  misinterpreting 
what  was  so  simple-minded  and  unworldly ;  the  appeal  came 
straight  from  the  father's  troubled  heart ;  he  trusted  his  friend 
to  the  utmost  limit  that  one  friend  can  trust  another. 

Dr.  Catherwood  sat  looking  steadfastly  before  him,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  floor.  Christine  had  been  offered  to  him — 
Christine,  with  her  youth,  her  loveliness,  her  wealth — in  her 
fair,  dawning  womanhood,  with  her  loyal  and  earnest  affec 
tion,  with  her  true,  untainted  heart,  of  which  he  was  perhaps 
already  master.  There  was  a  future  to  cover  and  obliterate 
any  hateful  past ;  a  future  that,  coming  so  late  in  the  life  of  any 
man,  might  well  astound  him  with  its  rich  and  luxuriant  promise. 

There  was  a  silence  of  many  moments ;  the  Rector  did  not 
take  his  eyes  from  off  his  companion's  face,  but  he  could  read 
nothing  on  it.  Its  perfect  repose  and  kindliness  he  could  not 
fancy  covered  a  black  storm  of  rebellion  and  temptation ;  and 
in  his  voice,  when  he  raised  his  eyes  and  spoke,  he  did  not  de 
tect  the  faintest  tremble  of  emotion. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he,  said,  "  whether  I  am  quite  right  in  say 
ing  what  I  do,  since  it  is  nothing  but  conjecture ;  but  I  have 
always  taken  so  much  interest  in  your  daughter,  that  I  have 
observed  the  impression  made  upon  her  by  those  with  whom 
she  has  been  thrown  ;  and  also  the  impression  she  has  made 
upon  the  minds  of  the  men  whom  she  has  met.  She  is  univer 
sally  admired ;  but  among  her  admirers  there  is  one  who  per 
haps  promises  as  much  as  any  you  can  hope  to  find.  He  is  a 
man  of  good  intellect  and  acquirements,  kind-hearted,  I  think, 
and  well  calculated  to  render  happy  any  woman  who  was  dis 
posed  to  love  him.  Colonel  Steele  is  not  a  personal  friend  of 
mine ;  he  is  a  travelling  acquaintance  and  an  occasional  compa 
nion.  I  do  not  know  a  great  deal  of  his  life,  but  I  should 
think  it  would  bear  scrutiny.  He  has  lived  before  the  world 
continually  in  a  very  open  and  well-conducted  manner ;  and  if 
I  understand  him,  is  a  man  to  whom  a  father  need  not  fear  to 


A   MOMENT   OF   TEMPTATION.  165 

trust  a  daughter,  provided  always  he  was  the  daughter's 
choice.  I  am  certain  you  never  would  urge  upon  your  child  a 
marriage  to  which  her  heart  was  disinclined.  I  understand 
and  honor  your  feelings,  Dr.  Upham,  more  than  I  can  tell  you, 
and  I  sincerely  trust  you  may  see  the  consummation  of  your 
best  hopes  for  your  daughter's  happiness.  She  is  fast  ripening 
into  a  womanhood  of  the  noblest  type  ;  and  the  man  who  has 
the  happiness  to  win  her  love,  and  the  right  to  ask  her  hand, 
may  thank  Heaven  for  its  generosity." 

Dr.  Upham  sighed  heavily  as  he  rose,  and  paced  up  and 
down  the  room.  "  We  seldom  get  our  wishes,  Catherwood," 
he  said;  "but  I  am  willing  she  should  be  happy  in  Heaven's 
way,  if  I  cannot  see  her  happy  in  mine.  Do  you  think 
she  likes  this  man  ?  I  had  hardly  noticed  him.  I  never 
dreamed " 

"  I  cannot  say  she  likes  him  ;  perhaps  she  hardly  knows  her 
self  as  yet." 

"  I  must  speak  to  her  ;  I  must  know  about  it,"  he  murmured, 
as  he  crossed  the  floor  ;  "  but,  Catherwood,"  he  added,  after  a 
moment,  stopping  before  him,  "  I  am  afraid  of  the  influence  of 
my  wishes  on  her.  I  cannot  trust  myself.  I  want  her  to 
choose  for  herself,  since  I  do  not  know  the  man.  You  had  bet 
ter  speak  to  her  about  it,  find  out  how  she  feels,  and  tell  me 
the  result.  Do  not  blame  rue ;  I  have  had  such  a  calamity  ;  I 
have  such  cause  to  dread  this  step.  I  cannot  trust  myself  to 
speak.  Find  out  this  thing  for  me,  and  bring  me  word,  my 
friend." 

Dr.  Catherwood  was  silent,  and  then  made  the  promise  that 
he  asked,  and  went  out  in  time  to  see  Mrs.  Sherman  drive  away 
from  the  door  in  her  open  carriage,  with  Mr.  Brockhulst  on 
the  seat  beside  her,  and  Madeline,  Christine,  Mr.  Leslie,  and 
Colonel  Steele  riding  on  horseback  in  advance. 


166  A   ROUGH    EXPEDIENCE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A    ROUGH    EXPERIENCE. 

**  If  you  break  your  plaything  yourself,  dear, 

Don't  you  cry  for  it  all  the  same  ? 
I  don't  think  it  is  such  a  comfort, 
One  has  only  one's  self  to  blame." 

A.  PROCTOR. 

THE  afternoon  was  not  what  Mrs.  Sherman  had  put  down 
in  her  programme  ;  it  was  bright  and  rather  promising  when 
they  first  started,  but  about  three  miles  out  of  town,  the  horizon 
began  to  swell  its  pile  of  thunder-heads,  small  clouds  scoured 
over  the  heavens,  and  the  sun,  though  still  shining,  had  an  out- 
of-place,  unnatural  look,  from  contrast  with  the  dark  below. 

Mrs.  Sherman  began  to  be  uneasy,  and  to  ask  Mr.  Brockhulst 
and  the  coachman  if  they  thought  there  would  be  a  storm. 
The  coachman  thought  it  would  blow  over,  and  Mr.  Brock 
hulst  could  give  no  opinion.  By-and-by  the  riding  party 
slackened  their  pace  and  waited  for  the  carriage  to  come  up, 
and  asked  what  was  to  be  done.  No  one  wanted  to  go  home, 
but  all  felt  a  vague  apprehension  that  that  was  just  what  should 
be  done ;  still  the  coachman  said  it  would  blow  over,  and  Made 
line  said  it  had  looked  just  so  last  week  and  had  not  rained, 
and  Mr.  Leslie  was  certain  they  could  get  back  in  time  if  it 
began  to  sprinkle ;  so  it  was  concluded  they  should  ride  on 
another  mile,  and  see  how  things  looked  at  that  time. 

They  rode  on  another  mile,  and  then  stopped  and  held 
another  council.  The  storm  had  not  made  any  progress  cer 
tainly  ;  the  west  was  lowering,  but  the  sun  was  shining ;  the 
clouds  had  not  grown  in  size,  and  they  had  been  looking  at 


A   ROUGH   EXPERIENCE.  167 

them  so  long  they  could  not  tell  whether  they  had  increased 
at  all  in  blackness.  When  people  start  out  on  a  party 
of  pleasure,  it  takes  an  angel  with  a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand 
to  turn  them  back.  The  very  horses,  in  this  case,  seemed  to 
scorn  the  indecision  of  their  riders,  and  to  fret  under  the 
restraint  of  bit  and  bridle,  as  they  paused  in  consultation ;  par 
ticularly  Madeline's  black,  whom  she  found  it  impossible  to 
hold,  and  whose  restive  movements  caused  her  to  exclaim, 
rather  impatiently  : 

"One  thing  or  the  other,  good  people;  Guido  and  I  are 
tired  of  indecision." 

"  Let  us  go,"  cried  Colonel  Stecle,  with  animation  ;  "  we  can 
find  plenty  of  shelter  if  it  should  rain." 

"  A  storm  among  the  mountains  would  be  glorious,"  said  Mr. 
Leslie ;  "  a  thing  to  be  remembered  all  one's  life." 

"Well,  anything  for  an  adventure,"  eaid  Mrs.  Sherman, 
yieldingly. 

"  I  trust  we  shall  not  be  detained  beyond  eight  o'clock,"  re 
marked  the  young  minister,  rather  anxiously. 

"  It  strikes  me  you  are  all  unwise,"  said  Christine,  as  she  fol 
lowed  her  companions. 

Their  destination  was  an  inn  of  some  celebrity  among  trout- 
fishers  and  sportsmen,  situated  in  a  wild  spot  near  the  summit 
of  the  lowest  of  the  group  of  mountains  which  rose  gradually 

from  among  the  hills  surrounding .  Mrs.  Sherman  had  sent 

a  servant  up  in  the  morning  to  order  tea  to  be  prepared  for  them, 
and  it  was  proposed  to  leave  there  about  nine  o'clo.ck,  coming 
home  by  the  light  of  the  harvest  moon,  now  at  the  full. 

Two  members  of  the  party  were  sailing  under  sealed  orders 
— Mr.  Brockhulst  and  Christine.  It  was  feared  that  the  latter 
was  too  shy  a  fish  to  rise  to  any  bait  so  palpable  and  strong  as 
tin  excursion  of  such  length  and  with  Colonel  Steele  for  her 
companion,  and  she  was  only  asked  indefinitely  to  join  a  riding- 
party.  Mr.  Brockhulst,  also,  Mrs.  Sherman  knew,  would  never 


168  A   ROUGH    EXPERIENCE. 

be  caught  in  such  a  worldly  company  at  such  an  hour  on  the 
night  of  Saturday ;  so  she  used  a  little  of  the  serpent's  wis 
dom,  and  sending  the  cavalcade  ahead,  called  herself  at  the  cot 
tage  where  he  had  his  rooms,  aud  sent  the  servant  up  with  a 
message  to  him — a  message  so  worded  that  it  conveyed  to  his 
mind  the  idea  his  benefactress  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  door, 
to  know  if  he  would  spend  a  half  hour  with  her  in  the  carriage, 
if  he  possibly  could  spare  the  time,  to  talk  over  something  in 
connection  with  the  parish,  while  she  gave  him  a  little  airing 
and  secured  an  uninterrupted  conference. 

With  a  weary  sigh  he  pushed  aside  his  uncompleted  sermon, 
closed  half-a-dozen  books  of  reference  lying  by  him  on  the 
table,  and  prepared  himself  to  obey  the  unwelcome  summons. 
Reckless  as  he  was  in  the  use  of  himself,  he  had  an  impression 
that  he  was  not  wise  in  sitting  up  till  two  o'clock  on  Sunday 
morning  to  finish  a  sermon  to  be  preached  that  day.  There 
was  four  hours'  work  on  it  yet,  and  if  he  went  to  drive  with 
Mrs.  Sherman  it  could  not  be  touched  till  ten,  for  at  seven 
came  tea,  at  eight  came  a  class  of  youths  to  be  prepared  for 
Confirmation,  and  at  ten  would  come  the  resumption  of  the 
sermon — a  sermon  written  at  the  request  of  his  vestry,  and  pro 
mised  for  that  occasion.  He  had  walked  at  least  eight  miles 
in  the  morning,  visiting  some  distant  parishioners,  and  had  no 
need  whatever  of  the  air — in  fact,  needed  rest  much  more — for 
Saturday  was  a  terrible  day  with  him,  all  the  parish  work  of 
the  week  being  crowded  into  it  on  account  of  the  holiday  he 
gave  his  class  of  boys. 

But  Mrs.  Sherman's  wishes  could  not  be  disregarded ;  no 
doubt  she  had  something  of  importance  to  say  to  him,  and  it 
showed  a  very  unchastened  spirit  to  rebel  so  much  against  the 
interruption. 

He  looked  very  pale  and  languid  as  he  took  his  place  beside 
her  in  the  carriage,  and  his  forced,  patient  smile  really  was  very 
touching. 


A   EOUGII    EXPERIENCE.  169 

"  You  are  working  too  hard,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  his 
benefactress,  with  a  most  interested  air.  "  Do  not  let  me  hear 
of  any  more,  eight-mile  walks  while  you  are  so  weak.  Why 
did  you  not  send  to  the  Hill  ?  You  know  there  is  always  a 
horse  there  for  you.  And  this  matter  of  the  Confirmation 
Class  three  evenings  in  the  week — I  implore  you  to  discontinue 
it.  I  shall  take  every  pains  to  interrupt  and  interfere  with  it. 
You  need  relaxation  and  amusement ;  you  are  in  my  hands  for 
this  afternoon,  and  I  shall  see  that  you  do  not  escape  me." 

Mr.  Brockhulst  looked  alarmed,  as  well  he  might. 

As  they  drove  up  to  the  Parsonage,  they  caught  sight  of 
Madeline  pacing  her  horse  up  and  down  under  the  trees,  while 
Colonel  Steele  was  opening  the  gate  for  Christine,  who  was 
just  coming  out.  Mr.  Brockhulst  changed  color. 

"  Are  you  ready  for  your  ride,  mes  amis  ?  We  will  go  on 
together.  It  will  be  very  pleasant,"  said  Mrs.  Sherman,  art 
lessly,  and  as  if  she  thought  the  meeting  quite  a  charming  lit 
tle  coincidence. 

Madeline  looked  the  embodiment  of  good  style  on  horse 
back  ;  she  wore  a  black  cloth  habit  and  a  high  beaver,  hat ; 
her  whole  costume  was  as  masculine,  rigid,  and  modish  as  was 
possible.  She  looked  extremely  handsome,  too,  and  her  figure 
showed  to  the  best  advantage ;  all  women  thought  she  had 
attained  the  happiest  point,  but  the  male  eye  turned  with  more 
admiration  towards  the  pretty  girlish  figure  of  Christine.  Her 
habit  was  navy  blue  cloth,  and  her  hat  a  straw,  bound  with 
blue  velvet  to  match,  with  a  long  drooping  blue  feather. 

Colonel  Steele,  as  he  put  her  on  the  horse  and  adjusted  her 
small  foot  in  the  stirrup,  wished  he  had  Dr.  Catherwood  at  ten 
paces,  with  a  Colt's  revolver  and  a  just  cause  of  provocation. 

After  the  second  council  of  war  and  the  second  resolution 
to  proceed,  they  began  the  ascent  of  the  mountain,  and  the 
equestrians  got  a  good  deal  in  advance  of  the  carriage,  which 
was  an  unsuitably  heavy  one  for  such  a  road.  Mrs.  Sherman 

8 


170  A   BOUGH   EXPERIENCE. 

tried  to  make  herself  very  agreeable  to  her  companion,  who 
could  not  succeed  in  making  himself  anything  but  absent- 
minded  and  uneasy.  Mrs.  Sherman  looked  a  goad  deal  at  the 
sky,  and  Mr.  Brockhulst  looked  a  good  deal  in  a  furtive  man 
ner  at  his  watch.  There  was  a  growing  conviction  in  the  mind 
of  the  one  that  there  was  a  storm  coming  up,  and  in  that  of  the 
other  that  the  Confirmation  Class  would  go  by  the  board  that 
night. 

A  half  hour  passed  ;  the  ascent  of  the  mountain  was  neces 
sarily  a  very  slow  one ;  the  road  was  always  a  bad  one,  and 
two  or  three  hard  rains  during  the  week  had  gullied  and 
injured  it  very  much.  For  a  long  distance  the  trees  on  either 
side  were  so  thick  the  sky  was  scarcely  to  be  seen,  and  the 
increasing  darkness  was  to  be  accounted  for  by  that  circum 
stance.  But  in  about  half  an  hour  they  emerged  from  the 
woods  upon  an  open  plateau,  from  whence  they  looked  down 
upon  the  distant  town  and  its  surrounding  hills,  and  out  upon 
the  thunder-clouded  west.  Above  them,  on  the  other  side, 
rose  precipitous  and  overhanging  rocks ;  the  air  was  hot  and 
still,  with  an  occasional  shivering  current  of  chill  running 
through  it.  There  was  "  a  going  in  the  tops  of  the  trees," 
and  then  a  hush ;  a  twitter  of  some  frightened  bird,  and  then 
a  cowering  down  in  silence.  All  nature  seemed  appalled  and 
apprehensive,  hanging  on  the  breath  of  that  fearful  mass  of 
tempest  that  lay  black  and  sullen  in  the  west. 

The  clouds  had  swollen  and  grown  almost  over  the  whole 
heaven;  the  sun  was  quite  obscured,  but  colored  the  clouds 
before  it  with  a  reddish  lurid  light  that  made  them  a  feature 
of  terror  in  the  landscape.  And  at  intervals  there  went 
through  the  black  bank  of  cloud  a  swift,  thin  thread  of  flame, 
that  seemed  to  leave  them  infinitely  blacker  and  more  dense. 

Mrs.  Sherman  with  difficulty  suppressed  a  scream  as  they 
came  out  of  the  cover  of  the  gloomy  woods  upon  this  broad 
and  threatening  expanse  of  sky.  A  few  rods  before  them 


A.  KOUGH   EXPEKIENCE.  171 

halted  the  riding-party,  who  had  only  reached  the  spot  that 
moment,  owing  to  a  long  delay  occasioned  by  the  turning 
of  Christine's  saddle  and  the  loss  of  Madeline's  whip.  They 
all  looked  pretty  grave,  excepting  Madeline,  who  called  out 
laughingly  to  Mrs.  Sherman  that  they  had  a  prospect  of 
the  adventure  she  desired.  Colonel  Steele,  riding  quickly  up 
to  the  carriage,  asked  the  coachman  how  far  to  the  inn  it 
was,  and  whether  there  was  any  shelter  by  the  way.  Mrs. 
Sherman  was  by  this  time  in  a  very  hysterical  state,  and  was 
calling  upon  all  her  gods  to  get  her  safely  out  of  this.  The 
coachman,  in  rather  a  dazed  state,  was  trying  to  remember 
how  many  miles  it  was  to  the  inn,  but  could  not.  Only  he 
was  certain  of  this,  they  were  more  than  half  way  up  the 
mountain,  and  the  only  thing  was  to  go  straight  ahead. 

"  Then  drive  on,  at  the  best  rate  you  can,"  said  Colonel 
Steele,  with  authority,  springing  from  his  horse  to  assist  Mr. 
Brockhulst  in  putting  up  the  top  and  fastening  down  the 
apron  of  the  carriage.  "  The  young  ladies  had  better  get  in 
here." 

"  No,  indeed,"  cried  Madeline ;  "  if  we  ride  fast  we  can 
get  to  the  inn  half  an  hour  before  the  carriage.  I  shall  not 
dismount." 

"  Then,  Miss  Upharn,  you  must  let  me  take  you  down. 
Mr.  Brockhulst,  will  you  ride  Miss  Upham's  horse  and  give 
up  your  place  to  her  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Christine. 

"Christine,  I  command  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Sherman,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  excitement,  and  Colonel  Steele  waited  for  no  further  per 
mission,  but  lifted  her  from  the  horse  and  put  her  in  the  carriage. 

Mr.  Brockhulst,  who  fortunately  was  a  very  good  horse 
man,  mounted  the  bay  mare  and  rode  forward,  joined  in  a 
moment  by  Colonel  Steele ;  Madeline  and  Mr.  Leslie  leading 
the  advance.  The  carriage  soon  was  lost  to  sight. 

"  I  must  keep  back  a  little,"  said  Colonel  Steele,   looking 


172  A    ROUGH    EXPERIENCE. 

down  the  road  anxiously.  "Mr.  Brockhulst,  you  had  better 
ride  on,  keeping  an  eye  upon  Miss  Clybourne.  She  may 
need  both  you  and  Leslie  before  the  ride  is  over.  That  black 
brute  has  the  very  devil  in  his  eye  to-day." 

Mr.  Brockhulst  needed  no  further  hint ;  he  was  within  two 
rods  of  the  young  horsewoman  before  Colonel  Steele  had  fairly 
turned  his  horse  around.  The  road,  now  descending  slightly 
through  a  rocky  and  damp  ravine,  was  too  narrow  for  him 
to  ride  beside  her ;  but  she  turned  her  head  and  caught  sight 
of  his  anxious  face  with  a  peculiar  satisfaction. 

Presently  the  great,  slow  drops  of  rain  began  to  patter 
down  upon  the  leaves  above  them  with  a  dull,  deliberate 
regularity ;  then  a  strong  swaying  of  the  branches  suddenly 
commenced ;  then  came  a  sharp  glaring  blaze  of  lightning, 
and  then  a  peal  of  thunder  that  burst  with  deafening  echoes 
among  the  ledges  overhead.  Madeline  was  a  girl  of  good 
spirit  and  most  unusual  courage,  but  she  could  not  quite 
repress  a  little  scream,  and  she  raised  her  right  hand  to  her 
eyes  as  if  to  rub  out  that  horrid  gleam.  The  little  move 
ment  gave  Guido  the  advantage ;  he  took  the  bit  between 
the  teeth  and  made  a  plunge. 

"  Check  him,  check  him,  Miss  Clybourne  !  Don't  let  him 
have  his  head,"  cries  Mr.  Leslie,  like  a  fool,  for  who  was  going 
to  let  him  have  his  head  if  it  could  be  helped  ? 

Madeline  uttered  some  impatient  advice  to  him  to  keep 
quiet,  and  grasping  the  reins  firmly,  shook  Guide's  stubborn 
head  about  until  he  came  to  terms — that  is,  until  he  consented 
to  go  up  an  opposing  hill  at  a  hand-gallop  instead  of  on  a  mad 
run.  It  was  only  a  temporary  subjugation,  though,  she  and  her 
companion  knew.  Half  her  strength  was  gone  before  she  was 
up  the  hill,  and  she  saw  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart  the  rough 
precipitous  way  that  succeeded  it  before  the  next  winding  of 
the  road  brought  them  again  on  the  ascent. 

She  was  not  frightened ;  she  knew  perfectly  well  what  she 


A    BOUGH    EXPERIENCE.  173 

was  about ;  she  could  have  managed  six  wild  horses  at  once  if 
she  had  only  had  the  strength.  He  would  never  master  me 
if  I  were  not  a  woman  and  so  weak,  she  thought;  and  the 
vexatious  idea  lent  her  another  spasm  of  power,  and  she  fairly 
brought  him  under  for  the  moment.  The  road  was  too  narrow 

D 

for  the  three  to  go  abreast ;  so  as  Madeline  slackened  up,  Mr. 
Leslie  trotted  briskly  along  beside  her,  and  Mr.  Brockhulst 
fell  into  place  behind  them,  holding  the  amiable  bay  in  his 
hand  and  never  taking  his  eyes  off  Madeline. 

The  rain  was  now  falling  fast ;  the  blackness  was  less  intense, 
but  the  rain  was  blinding,  and  the  wind,  now  roaring  loudly  in 
the  trees,  made  all  the  horses  restless  and  prone  to  start,  while  the 
uncertainty  of  their  footing  increased  every  moment.  Before 
they  had  gone  fifty  rods  further,  the  road  was  one  broad  stream  ; 
a  thousand  little  rills  were  pouring  into  it  from  the  rocks  above; 
there  seemed  a  deluge ;  the  air  was  full  of  the  sound  of  water. 

The  path  grew  rougher  and  wilder ;  it  gave  Madeline  a  mo 
mentary  sense  of  giddiness  as  she  caught  a  glimpse,  by  aid  of 
the  flashes  that  were  now  dancing  round  them  thicker  and 
faster,  of  the  road  they  were  approaching,  winding  around  the 
mountain  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  that  seemed  to  go  down, 
down,  without  a  curve,  to  the  forest-tops  below  them.  This 
crazy  road,  over  which  it  was  rather  an  adventure  to  ride  at 
any  time,  was  as  much  out  of  repair  as  it  is  often  the  lot  of  a 
road  to  be.  There  were  not  half-a-dozen  travellers  a  day  passing 
over  it,  and  they  rarely  were  equestrians ;  generally  sportsmen 
with  gun  and  bag  or  creel  and  pole,  and  the  occasional  lumber- 
ino;  cart  and  sure-footed  beast  sent  down  from  the  little  inn  for 

O 

the  few  supplies  the  two  families  needed  who  lived  upon  the 
mountain.  There  were  rough  bridges,  occasionally  mended  by 
a  log,  oftener  left  gaping  from  freshet-time  to  freshet-time,  and 
there  were  gullies  down  the  mountain  side  that  sometimes 
shook  the  nerves  of  even  the  sure-footed  nag  who  had  never 
been  used  to  any  better  or  smoother  manner  of  highway.  Mrs. 


174  A   KOUGH   EXPERIENCE. 

Sherman,  in  her  tnirst  for  an  adventure,  had  taken  the  word  of 
some  enthusiastic  fisherman  who  had  gone  up  on  foot,  and  was 
entirely  unprepared  for  what  she  found  herself  surrounded  by, 
and  Colonel  Steele  and  Mr.  Brockhulst  were  perfectly  aghast. 
Mr.  Leslie,  of  course,  was  frightened ;  but  it  did  not  take  much 
to  frighten  him. 

Madeline  held  her  lips  very  tightly  pressed  together,  and  did 
not  open  them  when  her  companion  made  some  feeble  and 
spasmodic  attempts  to  make  her  speak.  She  was  thinking  : 
"  Will  my  head  reel  when  I  reach  that  giddy  bit  of  road  1 
Have  I  the  strength  and  nerve  to  last  me  till  we  pass  it,  or  are 
they  to  fail  me  at  that  moment  ?  Has  the  time  come  ?" 

They  were  rapidly  approaching  the  dreaded  place ;  Madeline 
held  herself  firm  and  erect  upon  her  horse ;  she  grasped  the 
bridle  till  her  fingers  felt  like  stone.  Mr.  Brockhulst,  with  a 
face  as  pale  as  ashes,  rode  close  behind  her  and  never  took  his 
eyes  away  from  her ;  Mr.  Leslie  kept  his  place  with  difficulty 
beside  her,  for  Guide's  moderation  was  his  horse's  extreme  of 
speed. 

Just  as  they  neared  the  spot,  only  separated  from  it  by  a 
rude,  uncertain  bridge,  and  just  as  Madeline  was  feeling  she 
would  come  out  victorious,  there  flamed  across  the  heaven  such 
a  piercing,  blinding  light,  and  such  a  frightful  crash  of  thunder 
burst  over  their  very  heads,  shattering  and  shivering  the  air, 
and  stunning  the  senses  like  a  blow,  that  all  three  horses  sprang 
wildly  forward  ;  Guido  cleared  the  bridge  at  a  bound,  made  a 
misstep,  regained  his  footing,  and  sped  wildly  on,  while  Mr. 
Leslie's  steed  stumbled  and  fell  utterly,  a  helpless  heap  of  horse 
flesh. 

Alas !  for  Madeline.  If  her  fingers  had  been  of  bronze, 
laced  in  and  out  of  those  iron  strips  of  reins,  if  her  strength 
had  been  "  the  strength  of  ten,"  it  would  have  availed  but  lit 
tle.  To  the  viciousness  and  stubbornness  of  the  brute's  nature 
was  added  sudden  and  frantic  terror ;  he  was  blinded  by  his 


A    ROUGH    EXPERIENCE.  175 

fright  and  fury.  The  whole  violence  of  the  storm  seemed 
hurled  upon  them  at  this  point,  exposed  and  open,  round  which 
the  wind  swept  fiercely,  and  against  which  the  rain  fell  in  strong 
and  heavy  sheets.  The  horse  saw  nothing,  regarded  nothing ; 
he  was  running  madly  upon  destruction. 

He  flew  forward,  straight  as  an  arrow  shot  from  a  steel  cross 
bow  ;  the  road,  ten  rods  further  on,  took  a  sharp  curve  round 
the  mountain  side.  Below  lay  the  rocky  precipice,  the  gloomy 
gorge — the  tree-tops  far,  far  down  below. 

Madeline  still  sat  firm,  erect,  holding  those  binding  strips 
of  iron  in  her  powerless  hands,  seeing  little  more  than  the 
blinded  horse  beneath  her  saw — feeling  cold,  and  dumb,  and 
stolid.  "One  minute  more,"  she  was  saying  to  herself;  "one 
minute  more — how  will  it  feel — how  long  will  it  last — how 
shall  I  know " 

Over  and  over  the  words  ran  through  her  mind ;  she  knew 
the  truth,  the  awful  danger,  but  the  knowledge  of  it  had  come 
too  suddenly,  too  vividly,  and  had  stunned  her. 

All  this  Mr.  Brockhulst  saw  with  feelings  that  no  words  can 
convey.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done,  one  move  possi 
ble  to  save  this  fearful  game — to  reach  the  outer  edge  of  the 
precipice  first;  to  get  the  outside  track  and  press  Guido  in  ;  to 
turn  him,  if  only  a  hair's  breadth  inward  ;  to  break,  in  even  a 
faint  degree,  his  headlong  course ;  and,  if  possible,  to  keep 
beside  him  till  the  danger  passed.  It  seemed  an  even  throw  ; 
perhaps  Flite  was  not  steady  enough  to  do  the  work  required 
of  her ;  perhaps  nothing  could  turn  and  startle  Guido  now. 
But  there  was  a  chance.  He  cheered  his  willing,  obedient 
horse  to  one  strong  effort ;  bounded  to  her  side — there  was  still 
room  for  him  ;  one  instant  more,  he  was  a  hair's  breadth  in 
advance ;  another,  Flite's  hoof  had  struck  the  precipice — she 
shuddered,  faltered,  and  regained  her  footing.  Guido  rushed 
by  her,  struck  against  her,  sprang  violently  back,  inward  from 
the  edge,  and  then  dashed  on. 


176  A    ROUGH    EXPERIENCE. 

But  the  work  was  done.  Still  the  young  rider  sat  erect  and 
firm,  and  beside  her,  now  white  and  trembling  and  unnerved, 
her  companion  rode.  The  road  beyond  rose  straight  before 
them  up  the  mountain  side,  and  along  it  flew  the  two  horses, 
across  tumbling  streams,  deep  gullies,  broken  bridges,  through 
the  storm  and  darkness;  on,  on,  as  people  ride  in  dreams  of 
terror. 

At  last  there  came  a  widening  of  the  road,  an,  open  field, 
some  fences,  and  through  the  lulling  storm  presently  they  heard 
the  bark  of  dogs,  the  tinkle  of  cow-bells,  and  by-and-by  a 
human  voice.  And  the  road  brought  up  abruptly  at  the  very 
door  of  a  low,  rough,  wooden  building  which  stood  directly 
across  it,  from  the  windows  of  which  a  light  was  shining,  and 
on  the  piazza  of  which  three  or  four  men  sat  smoking,  who 
sprang  up  in  alarm  at  the  wild  apparition.  Guido  found  insur 
mountable  objections  presenting  to  his  further  progress,  and 
stopped  short  with  a  start  and  shudder.  One  man  sprang  to 
his  bridle,  another  hastened  to  dismount  Madeline. 

But  her  fingers  were  so  laced  in  and  out  of  the  reins  she 
hardly  could  unwind  them  ;  her  gloves  were  torn  in  strips  and 
stained  with  blood,  the  only  evidence  of  the  good  fight  she  had 
made. 

"  You  have  had  a  hard  ride  of  it,"  said  the  man,  disentan 
gling  her  wet  habit  from  the  pommel  and  lifting  her  to  the 
ground.  She  caught  at  a  post  of  the  little  piazza  to  keep  her 
self  from  falling,  overcome  by  a  sudden  sense  of  giddiness,  but 
recovered  herself  instantly,  answered  carelessly,  and  walked 
into  the  house. 

There  was  a  perfect  tempest  of  agitation  in  her  heart,  but  she 
made  a  stubborn  resolution  to  keep  it  all  down  out  of  sight. 
She  had  seen  Mr.  Brockhulst  come  up  a  minute  after  her  and 
dismount,  and  now  she  had  a  perverse  fear  that  he  would  come 
to  her  and  say  something  about  the  awful  danger  they  had 
passed  through,  and  the  undeserved  mercy  that  had  kept  them 


A   BOUGH    EXPEBIENCE.  177 

still  in  life.  She  would  do  anything  rather  than  let  him  say 
that ;  she  shuddered  to  think  of  what  had  passed  ;  she  was 
frightened  at  her  own  wickedness,  but  she  found  herself  more 
impatient  than  penitent,  and  she  felt  that  any  one  who  advised 
her  to  be  grateful  would  do  it  at  his  peril.  She  was  blaming 
herself  unnecessarily,  her  nerves  were  so  shaken,  her  brain  so 
overwrought,  she  would  have  been  made  of  iron  if  she  had 
retained  control  of  them.  Some  women  would  have  cried  and 
fainted;  others  would  have  been  frozen  into  apathy  and  silence. 
But  all  Madeline's  strong  nature  was  thrilling,  and  clanging, 
aud  jarring  with  the  intensity  of  its  reaction,  and  she  felt  like 
defying  whatever  came  across  her  path. 

The  women  of  the  house  collected  about  her  with  many 
questions,  condolences,  and  offers  of  assistance. 

Yes,  they  had  been  caught  in  a  terrible  storm. 

No,  she  did  not  want  anything  till  the  rest  of  the  party  came. 

Yes,  they  might  dry  her  boots  if  they  pleased. 

No,  she  did  not  care  to  go  to  the  fire. 

She  would  be  much  obliged  if  she  could  be  left  quietly 
alone. 

So  the  women  went  away,  considerably  in  awe  of  the  grand 
young  lady  who  preferred  sitting  alone  there  in  her  dripping 
habit,  to  coming  into  the  kitchen  and  being  warmed  and  dried. 

By-and-by  Mr.  Brockhulst  came  in  looking  very  pale,  and 
found  her  walking  restlessly  about  the  room,  snapping  her  riding- 
whip  through  her  fingers.  She  turned  abruptly  as  he  entered, 
and  looking  at  him  over  her  shoulder  said,  with  a  laugh  : 

"  I  told  them  we  should  get  here  first." 

Mr.  Brockhulst  did  not  answer,  but  simply  walked  across  the 
room  and  stood  looking  from  the  window  down  the  road,  grow 
ing  dimmer  every  moment  with  the  passing  storm  and  coming 
light.  Presently  he  said,  turning  : 

"  You  would  do  well,  Miss  Clybourne,  to  go  to  the  fire  and 
have  your  clothes  dried,  I  should  think." 

8* 


178  A   ROUGH    EXPERIENCE. 

"  I'd  rather  wait  till  the  others  come,"  she  said,  carelessly. 
"  All  the  damage  is  done  to  my  habit  that  can  be  done.  And 
my  poor  hat,  that  I  fondly  hoped  to  look  so  fine  in  at  the 
Park  this  autumn  !  Well,  it's  a  lesson  to  me  not  to  wear  my 
silver-mounted  harness  when  I  go  on  such  crazy  country  expe 
ditions.  I  wonder  how  Christine  and  her  '  navy  blue'  are  com 
ing  out  of  the  adventure  ?" 

At  this  moment  the  landlord,  a  good-natured,  thick-set, 
sharp-witted  countryman,  presented  himself  at  the  door,  and 
with  a  hand  on  each  post,  stood  looking  in  in  silence  for  a 
while  ;  then  nodded  his  head  and  said  : 

"  Young  woman,  as  far  as  I'm  capable  of  judging,  you've  had 
a  mighty  risky  ride.  I  wouldn't  have  given  half  a  dollar  for 
your  chances  coming  round  the  ledge  on  that  awful  wild  black 
brute.  If  he  was  my  horse,  I'd  knock  him  in  the  head.  I 
wouldn't  have  a  devil  such  as  that  around  my  place.  And  I 
look  upon  your  getting  here  alive  as  one  of  the  wonders  folks 
say  is  never  going  to  cease." 

Madeline  laughed  carelessly  and  said  it  was  rather  a  surprise 
to  herself,  but  received  all  the  man's  congratulations  in  such  a 
nonchalant  fashion,  that  he  presently  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  took  himself  away. 

There  was  another  silence,  during  which  Madeline  seated  her 
self  at  a  little  melodeon  in  one  corner  of  the  room  and  began 
to  hammer  out  of  its  reluctant  keys  a  gay  and  familiar  tune. 
Her  companion,  rising  and  going  to  the  door,  stopped  with  his 
hand  upon  the  latch. 

"  You  will  not  consent  to  change  your  dress  or  go  in  to  the 
fire?"  he  said,  as  she  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  returned.  "  I  am  quite  comfortable.  I'll 
amuse  myself  till  the  others  come  with  playing  on  this  wheezy 
little  melodeon,  or  looking  at  the  works  of  art  about  the  room. 
Have  you  noticed  this  one  right  above  me  ? — 'Daniel  in  the 
Lion's  Den.'  Poor  Daniel !  I  wonder  if  the  people  pestered 


A   ROUGH    EXPERIENCE.  179 

him  as  much  about  his  miraculous  deliverance  as  they  do  me  ? 
and  whether  he  felt  as  cross  as  I  do  !" 

When  Madeline  was  alone,  she  closed  the  melodeon  impa 
tiently,  and  did  not  look  again  at  Daniel,  but  spent  a  very 
miserable  and  solitary  half  hour,  till  she  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels  and  the  voice  of  Colonel  Steele  as  he  hurried  up  in 
advance  of  the  carriage. 

"Brockhulst,   is   that   you?      All   safe?      Thank   Heaven! 
-From  Leslie's  story  I  was  prepared  for  anything." 

He  rode  back  to  the  carriage  to  give  the  welcome  news,  and 
presently  the  carriage  itself  was  at  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Sherman 
was  being  lifted  out  of  it,  a  perfect  wreck  of  the  style  and 
stateliness  that  had  stepped  into  it  three  hours  before.  Her 
modish  French  bonnet  seemed  to  have  lost  all  self-respect,  and 
was  a  miserable  spectacle — flimsy,  drooping,  shapeless.  Her 
flounces  were  damp  and  muddy,  the  shawls  wrapped  around 
her  by  her  companions  had  a  very  ludicrous  expression,  and  her 
hair  was  entirely  out  of  curl.  Madeline  met  her  at  the  door 
of  the  little  parlor  with  a  laugh. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  adventure  so  far,  Mrs.  Sherman  ?" 
she  cried,  while  Mrs.  Sherman  staggered  to  a  chair  and  only 
answered  by  a  groan. 

By  this  time  the  others  had  all  reached  the  parlor  door,  and 
Christine,  putting  her  arm  round  Madeline,  whispered  :  "  I  am 
bo  thankful  you  are  safe." 

Madeline  released  herself  and  exclaimed  derisively  :  "  Spare 
me  a  scene,  rny  love,  if  you  are  not  anxious  for  one  !  I  think 
I  had  a  better  ride  than  you,  though  the  landlord  does  say 
Guido  is  a  devil.  We  had  better  not  let  the  Judge  hear  that ! 
He  would  never  let  me  take  him  out  again." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  muttered  Colonel  Steele,  below  his 
breath,  while  aloud  he  went  on  to  pay  Madeline  some  compli 
ments  upon  her  horsemanship,  in  which  Mr.  Leslie  joined  as 
well  as  his  injured  condition  would  permit,  and  in  a  few  mo- 


180  A   BOUGH    EXPERIENCE. 

ments  all,  even  to  Mrs.  Sherman,  cheered  by  the  sight  of  a 
wood-fire  built  up  quickly  on  the  hearth,  and  a  comfortable- 
looking  supper  in  the  adjoining  room,  were  laughing  and  chat 
ting  merrily  about  Madeline's  adventure  as  if,  within  the  hour, 
she  had  not  stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  destruction  as  appalling 
as  could  be  pictured  to  the  imagination. 

The  young  clergyman,  unable  so  quickly  to  dispel  the  awful 
images  that  had  stamped  themselves  upon  his  mind,  went  from 
the  room  and  out  into  the  dark  and  chilly  night,  where  the  tem 
pest  was  wailing  itself  to  sleep,  and  the  tempest-wrung  forests 
were  shivering  still  with  the  recollection  of  its  fury.  It  seemed 
a  profanity  to  him  to  rush  from  the  presence  of  such  danger 
into  so  heartless  and  mocking  a  gaiety.  He  felt  the  distance 
between  him  and  Madeline  growing  greater  every  moment. 
Her  self-will  and  worldliness  alarmed  him,  her  levity  chilled  his 
love.  He  must  conquer  all  feeling  for  her,  or  be  lost  to  the 
life  to  which  he  was  devoted. 

And  while  Madeline,  with  crimson  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes, 
stood  in  the  circle  round  the  blazing  fire,  and  roused  them  all 
to  merry  peals  of  laughter  by  her  wit,  outside,  under  the  dark 
and  cloudy  sky,  there  was  a  resolution  taken  that  changed  the 
color  of  all  her  future  life. 


EAVESDBOPPING.  181 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


EAVESDROPPING. 


•  "  Sorrow  comes  to  all ; 


Our  life  is  checked  with  shadows  manifold  ; 
But  woman  has  this  more — she  may  not  call 
ller  sorrow  by  its  name." 

JBAN  INGELOW. 

THE  little  inn  contained  three  sleeping-rooms  for  the  accom 
modation  of  that  infinitesimal  portion  of  the  travelling  public 
who  ever  came  upon  its  hospitality.  Two  were  on  the  ground- 
floor,  one  adjoining  the  dining-room,  or  what  in  winter  did 
duty  for  a  kitchen  ;  the  other,  a  very  small  one,  opening  out  of 
the  little  parlor.  To  this  last  Christine  was  consigned,  Made 
line  sharing  Mrs.  Sherman's,  separated  from  it  by  the  narrow 
entry.  A  small,  dark  chamber  overhead  was  the  fate  of  Mr. 
Leslie  and  the  clergyman,  while  Colonel  Steele  remained  in 
possession  of  the  parlor  and  a  blanket  to  lie  down  on  by  the 
fire. 

Christine's  room  was  very  primitive ;  its  furniture  a  rag 
carpet,  a  wooden  chair,  and  a  washstand,  a  little  mirror  in  a 
black  frame,  and  a  very  narrow  bed ;  the  ceiling  was  so  very 
low  and  the  window  was  so  very  tiny,  that  it  would  have  seemed 
almost  impossible,  if  the  restless  wind  outside  had  not  pressed 
in  so  strongly,  to  have  drawn  more  than  half-a-dozen  breaths 
in  it. 

She  put  out  the  dim  little  candle  and  then  lay  down,  very 
much  in  earnest  about  going  to  sleep.  But  sleep  being  one  of 
the  few  things  not  attainable  by  exertion  of  the  will,  she  lay  a 


182  EAVESDROPPING. 

long  while  most  perfectly  awake,  tired,  and  excited,  and  rest 
less.  She  heard  the  wind  outside  and  the  occasional  barking 
of  a  dog,  and  the  swaying  of  some  branches  against  the  roof 
above.  Then  the  window  rattled  violently  in  its  clumsy  case 
ment,  and  the  paper-shade  before  it  shook  and  flapped,  and 
Christine  thought  she  must  get  up  and  go  and  call  Madeline  to 
come  and  stay  with  her,  and  then  she  was  very  much  ashamed 
of  herself  for  having  such  a  thought,  being  a  self-controlled 
and  well  regulated  young  woman,  and  having  had  to  smother 
midnight  terrors  without  material  assistance  all  her  life.  Poor 
little  girl !  she  had  had  no  mother's  side  to  creep  to  when  the 
storm  was  against  the  wall,  and  "  the  blast  of  the  terrible 
ones  "  roared  without ;  she  had  learned  to  lie  alone  and  silent 
through  whole  wakeful  nights,  hardly  breathing  without  pain, 
hardly  moving  without  fear. 

This,  therefore,  was  no  new  experience  to  her ;  and  one  alle 
viating  circumstance  in  the  night's  discomfort,  was  the  glearn  of 
the  fire-light  under  the  parlor  door,  and  the  occasional  movement 
in  the  room  adjoining  that  proved  its  occupant  not  yet  asleep. 
The  party  had  gone  to  their  rooms  early — that  is,  at  about  ten 
o'clock.  It  was  probably  between  half-past  eleven  and  twelve 
that  Christine  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  listened  breath 
lessly  to  a  loud  barking  of  all  the  dogs  about  the  house,  a 
motley-voiced  crew.  Then  a  sound  of  talking  outside,  and  the 
entrance  of  some  one  into  the  narrow  hall.  Some  wild  and 
desperate  character,  no  doubt ;  Christine  thought  it  probable  he 
would  cut  all  their  throats  before  morning,  but  did  not  see  that 
she  could  do  anything  but  listen.  A  man  with  the  voice  and 
step  of  the  landlord  opened  the  parlor  door  a  little  way,  and 
began  to  speak  in  a  deprecating  and  conciliatory  manner  to 
Colonel  Stcele,  who,  roused  suddenly,  had  asked  rather  sternly 
who  was  there. 

The  landlord  was  on  the  outside,  and  spoke  in  rather  a  thick, 
low  voice,  and  Christine  could  not  catch  all  he  said ;  but  she 


EAVESDROPPING.  183 

put  together  the  scraps  of  his  communication  and  the  replies  of 
Colonel  Steele,  and  assured  herself  that  a  belated  traveller  had 
arrived,  for  whom  there  was  no  possible  accommodation  but  ano 
ther  blanket  on  the  parlor  floor.  The  lofts  above  were  all  full, 
there  were  three  or  four  more  at  present  lying  round  the  kitchen 
fire,  the  ladies  had  the  only  two  decent  rooms  he  had,  and  he  did 
not  see  how  he  was  going  to  manage  it,  if  the  Colonel  would 
not  allow  the  gentleman  to  share  the  parlor  with  him.  He 
could  answer  for  the  gentleman's  being  quiet  and  civil,  and 
giving  him  no  trouble ;  hg  really  was  very  sorry,  but  he  did  not 
see  what  else  could  be  done. 

The  Colonel  swore  a  little,  as  became  him,  and  protested  that 
the  thing  was  utterly  impossible ;  but  finally  yielded,  as  he  had 
meant  to  from  the  first,  and  as  the  landlord  and  the  traveller 
outside  had  known  he  meant  to  do.  It  is  a  little  form  of  pro 
test  that  is  perfectly  understood  among  travellers,  and  after  it 
was  gone  through  with,  the  landlord  ushered  the  guest  into  the 
room,  expressed  his  thanks  to  Colonel  Steele,  and  closed  the 
door  and  went  away. 

Christine  felt  a  chill  of  alarm ;  the  partition  between  them 
was  so  thin,  the  door  so  slight  and  poorly  fastened,  she  really 
felt  as  if  she  must  go  and  speak  to  Madeline ;  she  would  rather 
lie  on  the  floor  in  their  room  than  stay  here. 

At  that  moment  she  caught  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice,  an 
exclamation  of  astonishment,  and  a  short  laugh  of  amuse 
ment  : 

"  Steele,  upon  my  soul !" 

"  Catherwood,  of  all  men  in  the  world  !" 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  Where  under  heavens  did  you  come  from  ?" 

Christine  could  hardly  repress  a  little  laugh  of  pleasure  at 
that  moment ;  she  felt  so  reassured  and  comfortable,  in  fact  per 
fectly  at  home  and  perfectly  protected ;  she  did  not  mind  the 
howling  of  the  wind  outside,  nor  the  gnsty  rattling  of  the  window ; 


184  EAVESDROPPING. 

she  felt  safe,  now  that  she  knew  Dr.  Catherwood  was  under  the 
same  roof  with  them.  She  smoothed  out  her  pillow,  and  with  her 
pretty  hand  under  her  cheek,  lay  down  with  a  happy  smile  upon 
her  lips.  But  they  went  on  talking,  and  she  could  not  help  hear 
ing  what  they  said. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  how  came  you  here 
on  this  wild  night  at  this  late  hour?" 

"  Never  be  surprised  at  meeting  a  country  physician  any 
where  at  any  time  of  night,"  returned  the  new-comer's  voice. 
"  I  was  sent  for  this  afternoon  to  see  a  very  ill  child  at  the  log- 
house  just  beyond,  but  not  returning  home  for  some  hours,  did 
not  get  the  message  till  the  storm  was  quite  inaugurated.  I  took 
the  brunt  of  it,  I  assure  you,  coming  up  the  mountain ;  and 
having  spent  two  hours  with  the  boy,  who  has  had  a  hard  fight 
for  life,  poor  lad,  and  being  thoroughly  drenched,  and  tired,  and 
sleepy,  I  shall  make  no  apology  for  accepting  your  urgent  hospi 
tality." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry,  Catherwood,  I  kept  you  outside  so  long ; 
really  I  did  not  dream  I  was  to  have  the  honor." 

"  That's  all  understood.  Now,  if  you  please,  how  came  you 
here,  and  what  separated  you  from  the  gay  party  with  whom  I 
saw  you  last  ?" 

"  The  separation  has  not  been  a  very  long  one ;  they  are  all 
bestowed  somewhere  in  this  spacious  inn — where,  I  shudder  but 
to  think ;  Mrs.  Sherman  never  folded  her  wings  so  close  before, 
I'm  bound." 

"  You  do  not  tell  me,"  said  his  companion,  in  a  tone  of  great 
surprise,  "  that  Mrs.  Sherman  left at  five  o'clock  this  after 
noon  with  the  intention  of  coming  to  this  place  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  just  that  thing,"  returned  the  Colonel ;  "  and  I 
need  not  assure  you,  after  this  date,  I  withdraw ;  I  never  serve 
under  her  again.  What  do  you  suppose  was  the  crazy  plan  ? 
To  come  up  here  for  supper,  and  go  back  by  moonlight !  By 
moonlight,  my  good  sir ;  through  those  forests  where  moonlight 


EAVESDROPPING.  185 

never  yet  found  itself  by  any  chance,  and  over  those  insane 
bridges  that  are  not  safe  at  midday.  The  woman  hasn't  the 
judgment  of  a  yearling  heifer.  She  has  been  in  a  state  of 
hysterics  ever  since  the  storm  came  on,  and  well  she  may  be, 
for  I  never  thought  those.two  girls  would  get  up  here  alive." 

"  They  are  safe,  you  said  ?"  Dr.  Catherwood  interrupted 
quickly. 

"  Safe  ?  Yes,  I  suppose  so ;  but  no  thanks  to  her." 
"Christine  rode  the  bay?"  he  went  on,  with  an  ill-concealed 
interest,  as  his  companion  paused. 

"Yes,  and  Miss  Clybourne  that  devil  of  a  Guido.  What 
Mrs.  Sherman  was  thinking  of  when  she  allowed  her  to  ride 
that  brute,  I  cannot  tell." 

"But  Chris ,  Miss  Uph  am,  had  no  trouble  with  the  bay?" 

"  No,  none.  I  put  her  in  the  carriage  when  the  storm  began, 
and  made  Brockhulst  ride  her  horse.  Leslie  was  thrown  at  a 
very  early  date,  and  when  we  overhauled  him,  limping  along, 
with  his  great  booby  of  a  horse  by  the  bridle,  he  gave  us  a  most 
dismal  story.  The  last  he  saw  of  Miss  Clybourne,  Guido  was 
on  a  run,  making  straight  for  a  precipice,  and  the  bay  had  lost 
his  footing  on  the  brink  of  it,  with  Brockhulst  on  his  back. 
This  made  it  cheerful  for  the  two  ladies  in  the  carriage ;  but  I 
always  make  allowance  for  a  story  when  it  comes  from  Leslie, 
and  after  tracking  them  safely  beyond  the  gully,  as  they  call  the 
precipice,  I  managed  to  keep  them  tolerably  quiet  till  we  got 
up  to  the  house.  Miss  Upham,  that  is ;  Mrs.  Sherman  acted  like 
a  fool ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  younger  one's  good  sense, 
I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of  us.  What  with 
keeping  a  lookout  for  Brockhulst  and  his  companion,  whom  I 
thought  we  might  come  upon  at  any  moment,  in  I  don't  know 
what  condition,  and  finding  the  road  for  that  dolt  of  a  coach 
man,  and  making  Leslie  hold  his  tongue,  and  quieting  my  own 
horse,  who  was  ready  to  jump  out  of  his  skin  at  every  flash  of 
lightning,  and  keeping  Miss  Upham's  spirits  up,  and  Mrs.  Sher- 


186  EAVESDROPPING. 

man's  hysterics  down,  Catherwood,  depend  upon  it,  I  bad  my 
hands  full." 

"I  can  well  understand  you  had,"  said  his  companion;  "Miss 
Clybourne  must  have  been  in  dreadful  danger." 

"  It's  enough  to  make  one  shudder  to  think  what  an  escape 
it  was  !  Brockhulst,  as  far  as  I  can  understand,  has  done  some 
thing  to  be  proud  of,  in  turning  Guido  in  and  getting  the  out 
side  track  himself,  just  as  they  were  rounding  the  curve  there 
above  the  gully.  I  don't  know  twenty  men  who  would  have 
had  the  nerve  and  seen  the  moment  when  to  do  it.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  that,  by  Jove,  that  girl  would  have  been  in  eternity  in 
a  minute  and  a  half.  The  sky  was  as  black  as  ink,  except  for 
the  occasional  lightning,  and  Guido  was  on  as  mad  a  run  as  a 
horse  ever  tried.  When  I  saw  the  tracks  about  the  edge  of 
the  bank  (one  horse  had  been  actually  over  and  had  struggled 
up),  I  was  afraid  to  trust  myself  to  look  below ;  I  waited  for 
the  next  flash  of  lightning  before  I  saw  the  tracks  ahead,  and 
knew  that  they  had  gone  safely  past  it.  But  this  girl  has 
spirit ;  she  never  lost  her  presence  of  mind,  and  the  men  say 
here,  she  came  in  as  straight  and  firm  in  her  seat  as  if  she  had 
been  trotting  round  the  Park  on  a  fine  afternoon." 

"  She  is  an  unusually  strong  character,"  said  the  other,  in  a 
lighter  tone.  "  How  is  it,  my  dear  Colonel,  is  Mrs.  Sherman 
making  up  a  match  between  her  protege  and  you  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  Colonel,  shortly.  "  I  admire  Miss  Clybourne, 
but  I  have  never  desired  to  marry  her ;  nor  supposed  !_  could 
do  so,  if  I  did  desire  it." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  rather  abruptly : 

"  Catherwood,  I've  sometimes  thought  you  and  I  were  of  the 
same  mind  about  the  same  woman.  If  that  is  so,  I  think  we 
Tiad  better  have  a  talk  about  it,  and  settle  which  has  the  best 
chance.  I  do  not  wish  to  waste  my  time." 

Every  word  of  this  Christine  distinctly  heard ;  she  could  not 
help  hearing;  till  this  sudden  moment  she  had  not  tried  not  to 


EAVESDROPPING.  187 

hear,  for  there  seemed  nothing  but  what  she  might  as  well  hear 
as  not.  Now,  while  she  lifted  herself  on  her  elbow  in  amaze 
ment  and  doubt  what  she  ought  to  do,  the  rest  came,  and  she 
listened ;  there  are  not  many  women  who  would,  for  those  first 
startled  moments,  have  done  otherwise. 

Dr.  Catherwood  was  silent,  and  then  said,  raising  his  head 
and  turning  it  towards  the  speaker,  which  brought  his  words 
only  the  more  distinctly  to  Christine  :  "  You  have  opened  the 
way  to  a  subject  on  which  I  am  glad  to  speak  to  you.  You 
are  mistaken  in  one  thing  ;  I  shall  not  interfere  with  you.  You 
should  have  known  that  from  what  passed  between  us  on  the 
first  night  of  our  meeting  at  the  Hill." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  the  other,  stiffly,  "  I  only  interpreted 
your  desire  for  secresy  as  additional  proof  of  what  I  feared  ;  and 
excuse  me,  but  I  do  not  see  any  reason  yet  to  change  my 
mind." 

"We  will  not  enter  into  that  at  present,"  said  the  other;  "a 
man's  past  life  is  not  always  the  pleasantest  thing  to  talk 
about ;  only  I  will  thank  you  now  for  observing  the  silence  I 
requested.  I  have  for  some  time  seen  where  your  fancy  had 
alighted.  I  cannot  tell  whether  Christine  returns  your  inter 
est  ;  that  is  for  you  to  discover  for  yourself.  But  I  can  tell 
you  one  thing  that  you  may  be  glad  to  know  :  her  father, 
who  has  not  long  to  live,  desires  nothing  so  much  as  to  see 
his  daughter  safely  married.  He  will  not  stand  at  wealth  ; 
Christine  has  that ;  he  only  asks  for  an  honorable  and  honest 
man,  who  will  be  a  kind  protector  to  her  after  he  is  gone. 
"With  him  my  influence  is  great.  I  can  further  your  suit  or 
ruin  it.  Tell  me  now,  before  the  old  man  speaks  to  me  about 
you,  can  you  make  this  girl  happy  if  you  win  her  love  1  You 
know  what  I  mean,  Steele ;  would  she  have  your  heart  and 
your  whole  life?  Men  that  have  wandered  round  the  world  as 
we  have,  know  there  are  many  ways  of  spending  away  one's 
soul,  and  bringing  to  a  wife  only  the  empty  mockery  of  a  heart — 


188  EAVESDROPPING. 

only  the  dregs  of  an  impure  and  ill-spent  life.  I  have  no  right 
to  question  you,  I  know,  only  as  might  makes  right ;  and  I  tell 
you,  candidly,  I  can  spoil  your  cause  with  Dr.  Upham.  But 
we  have  met  cordially  for  many  years ;  we  might  have  been 
friends,  perhaps,  if  our  meetings  had  been  more  frequent.  I 
wish  you  well ;  I  am  willing  to  do  all  I  can  to  promote  your 
honorable  purposes  ;  but  then,  you  must  remember,  this  young 
girl's  happiness  is  very  dear  to  me.  Her  father  has  shown  him 
self  my  friend  ;  for  her,  herself,  I  have  a  warm  affection  ;  at 
their  house  I  have  always  met  the  kindest  welcome.  Let  all 
this  be  my  excuse  for  asking  you  what  you  would  otherwise  do 
well  to  resent  indignantly.  What  have  you  to  give  Christina 
Upham  in  exchange  for  her  affection,  if  you  win  it?'r 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  the  other  answered  : 
"  An  affection  as  warm  and  sincere  as  any  man  at  any  age  can 
have  to  offer ;  and  a  life  that  can  be  handled  on  all  sides,  and 
that  calls  for  no  secresy  in  any  of  its  episodes." 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  say,  you  think,"  said  Dr.  Cather- 
wood,  with  a  short,  sarcastic  laugh.  "  Well,  sir,  you  are  right ; 
I  cannot  say  it;  but  I  do  not  hold  myself  any  worse  man  that  I 
cannot.  I  see  from  your  tone  you  do  not  like  what  I  have  said. 
Well,  wait,  my  friend,  till  you  are  in  my  position,  and  then  say 
whether  I  have  done  right  or  not.  I  have  had  to  do  with  a 
most  trusting  and  amiable  old  man,  and  he  has  asked  me  to  ad 
vise  him  of  his  daughter's  suitors.  He  has  put  more  into  my 
hands  than  I  care  to  hold  ;  but  I  am  the  friend  of  the  house,  and 
I  will  not  betray  the  trust.  No  man  shall  approach  that  child 
who  is  not  as  worthy  of  her  as  she  is  worthy  of  a  man's  whole 
love,  whole  life,  and  service.  I  do  well  to  prepare  you,  Steele, 
you  see.  I  do  not  open  the  guns  till  I  have  sent  a  summons." 

Up  to  this  moment  Christine  had  listened  hungrily,  absorb- 
edly,  without  a  scruple — she  drank  in  every  syllable  without 
breathing,  actually  without  the  exercise  of  thought — the  full 
force  of  all  only  came  in  the  pause  after  these  last  words  ;  then 


EAVESDKOPriXG.  189 

she  pressed  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  burying  it  deeply  in 
the  pillow,  felt  she  was  undone.  Besides  what  she  had  heard, 
was  the  way  of  having  heard  it;  the  shame  of  having  stolen  in 
upon  the  confidence  of  these  two  men  ;  possessed  herself  of  what 
either  of  them  would  have  died  rather  than  have  had  her  hear. 
Her  father's  appeal  to  Dr.  Catherwood.;  Dr.  Catherwood's 
anxiety  to  provide  for  her ;  his  cool  indifference  as  to  what 
might  be  her  own  desires ;  his  assertion  that  the  father  had  not 
long  to  live ;  the  dark  allusion  to  something  in  his  history  that 
could  not  be  revealed — all  these  were  revelations  that  shook 
the  very  earth  beneath  her. 

In  whom  was  she  to  believe ;  what  was  she  to  lean  upon ; 
where  to  look  for  counsel  now  ?  She  had  no  one  to  look  to,  no 
friend  anywhere.  He  whom  she  had  so  trusted,  who  had  so 
understood  and  cared  for  her,  to  talk  so  coolly,  to  approve  so 
readily  of  her  marriage  with  a  man  whom  he  knew  so  slightly, 
towards  whom  he  had  no  friendship,  and  for  whom  he  must 
have  known  she  felt  nothing  but  dislike.  What  did  it  all  mean  ? 
Why  had  he  changed  so  ?  What  had  she  done  to  estrange  him 
from  her  ?  She  remembered  now  fully  all  the  change.  Surely 
he  could  not  have  done  this  three  weeks  ago.  He  had  been 
different  with  her  since  that  night  of  Harry's  accident — that 
morning,  rather,  after  it,  when  she  had  talked  with  him  of  He 
lena.  But  no ;  it  was  her  own  heart  that  had  deceived  her ; 
friendship  did  not  mean  to  him  what  it  meant  to  her,  for  he 
talked  with  this  man  about  it,  and  while  bargaining  her  away 
to  him,  said  he  had  a  warm  affection  for  her,  and  that  her 
happiness  was  dear  to  him.  • 

The  ache,  the  agony  of  that  long  night !  She  did  not  quite 
know  what  the  agony  was;,  she  thought  the  ache  meant  only 
disappointed  friendship.  She  lay  still,  trying  not  to  hear  the 
low  words  of  the  talkers  in  the  room  adjoining,  turning  her  eyes 
away  from  the  gleam  of  fire-light  that  came  from  under  the 
door,  and  trembling  at  the  sound  of  the  crackling  wood  that 


190  EAVESDROPPING. 

from  time  to  time  one  of  them  piled  upon  the  fire.  Would 
they  never  let  the  fire  go  out ;  would  their  low  voices  never 
cease  !  She  must  not  hear ;  she  would  not  even  think  of  what 
she  had  so  wickedly  become  possessed ;  but  she  should  go  mad 
if  this  night  did  not  soon  end. 

At  last  it  ended,  to  the  talkers  in  the  other  room  at  least ; 
the  fire  went  out,  the  voices  ceased  ;  the  two  men  were  per 
fectly  silent,  and  were  probably  asleep. 

But  the  "fayre  morrowe"  came  at  length;  fau1  to  all  eyes 
that  had  not  wept  themselves  blind  through  the  long  night  of 
pain. 


NO   SERVICE   AT   ST.   PHILIP'S.  191 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

NO    SERVICE    AT    ST.    PHILIp's. 

.     "  Bv'ry  spendthrift  to  passion  is  debtor  to  thought." 

LUCILLE. 

THAT  Sunday  was  a  dark  day  in  the  calendar  of  every  mem 
ber  of  the  party  who  spent  the  Saturday  night  preceding  at 

the  little  shanty  of  an  inn  on  the mountain.     Dr.  Cather- 

wood  was  up  and  away  by  daybreak,  and  Colonel  Steele  was 
looking  after  the  horses  at  a  very  early  hour,  while  the  other 
two  gentlemen,  immured  in  a  dark  little  chamber  over  the 
dining-room,  close  against  the  roof,  did  not  receive  the  idea  of 
daylight  till  their  door  was  opened  by  the  landlord  at  about 
eight  o'clock. 

The  truth  was,  poor  Mr.  Brockiiulst  had  not  found  the 
night's  experience  any  pleasanter  than  Christine  had,  and 
towards  morning  had  fallen  into  his  first  sleep — a  miserable, 
harassing  one,  to  be  sure,  but  tenacious  of  its  hold  upon  its 
victim,  whom  it  had  all  night  played  fast  and  loose  with. 
When  the  landlord  spoke,  he  woke  with  a  start,  thought  him 
self  for  several  minutes  in  the  hold  of  a  slave-ship,  of  which  he 
had  been  dreaming ;  then  looked  at  his  watch  and  remembered 
where  he  was  and  what  the  morning  was,  and  almost  wished 
it  was  the  dream,  and  the  slave-ship  the  reality.  Half-past 
eight  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning,  and  he  ten  miles  away  from 
his  post  of  duty  !  The  early  service,  the  Sunday-school,  the 
Confirmation  class — all  these  were  passed,  duties  neglected, 
sins  for  ever  on  record — to  his  shame ;  but  the  morning  service 
might  still  be  saved.  He  might  reach  the  church  before  half- 


192  NO    SERVICE   AT   ST.   PHILIP'S. 

past  ten,  and  spare  himself  the  remorse  that  a  failure  to  do  so 
would  entail  upon  him.  With  that  thought  in  his  mind,  he 
had  left  the  little  room,  before  Mr.  Leslie  had  fairly  aroused 
himself  in  his  dark  corner  and  begun  to  prepare  for  the  morn 
ing  meal.  At  the  stable  he  met  Colonel  Steele,  who  shook  his 
head. 

"  A  gloomy  prospect  for  getting  down  the  mountain,"  said 
the  latter.  "  Guido  is  hors  du  combat,  as  might  have  been 
expected.  Flite  has  cut  herself  badly  in  one  or  two  places  on 
the  rocks,  and  ought  not  to  be  out  of  the  stable  for  a  week  at 
least ;  one  of  the  carriage-horses  has  had  a  bad  attack,  they 
tell  me,  in  the  night,  and  indeed  he  looks  pretty  much  used 
up  this  morning,  and  Leslie's  clumsy  beast  can  hardly  hobble 
to  his  oats,  owing  to  that  pretty  fall  he  had  before  he  left  you 
yesterday.  I  do  not  see  anything  for  it  but  to  put  my  horse, 
who  is  the  only  one  in  decent  trim,  before  the  carriage  with  the 
other,  and  send  the  ladies  down,  while  we  wait  here  till  we  are 
sent  for." 

"  It  is  of  the  last  importance  that  I  should  be  in by 

ten  o'clock,"  said  the  youag  clergyman,  in  a  hurried  manner. 
"  I  will  not  wait  for  breakfast.  I  will  walk  on." 

"  Walk !  My  dear  sir,  I  am  a  good  walker  myself ;  but  I 
do  not  flatter  myself  that  I  could  get  within  three  miles  of 

before  ten  o'clock,  or  half-past,  either.  The  state  of  the 

roads  is  terrible,  you  know,  and  the  mud  will  make  walking 
very  serious  business.  But  we  can  arrange  it  for  you  to  go 
in  the  carriage,  which  I  shall  have  got  up  at  once,  and  the 
ladies  will  no  doubt  be  ready  to  go  the  moment  breakfast  is 
completed.  That  is  your  only  chance,  and  I  think,  if  nothing 
occurs  to  detain  you,  you  may  be  in  at  the  hour  you  wish. 
You  can  direct  the  coachman  to  go  at  a  good  speed  as  soon  as 
you  get  off  the  mountain." 

Mr.  Brockhulst  had  to  yield,  as  his  good  sense  told  him 
Colonel  Steele  was  right ;  it  was  certainly  not  a  thing  for  any 


NO    SERVICE    AT   ST.    PHILIP'S.  193 

man  of  average  endurance  to  expect,  to  walk  ten  miles  over  a 
villanous  rough  road  in  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  and  read  ser 
vice  and  preach  a  sermon  at  the  end  of  it.  He  walked  back 
to  the  house,  to  find  no  one  but  Christine  ready  for  breakfast. 
Mrs.  Sherman  appeared  after  the  lapse  of  a  half-hour.  She 
was  not  in  very  good  spirits;  it  would  have  been  temper  instead 
of  spirits  at  fault  if  she  had  been  in  the  bosom  of  her  family. 
She  had  to  wear  her  bonnet  (which  Madeline  had  ungraciously 
straightened  out  for  her,  and  which  still  looked  rather  cowed 
and  miserable),  because  she  had  no  breakfast-cap,  and  because, 
for  reasons  of  state,  she  never  appeared  without  some  exterior 
decorations  on  her  head.  Now,  a  bonnet  at  table  never  has  a 
look  of  domestic  comfort  and  enjoyment,  much  less  of  convi 
viality  ;  and  Mrs.  Sherman's  bonnet  may  be  used  as  a  reason 
for  the  entire  absence  both  of  comfort  and  enjoyment,  not  to 
say  anything  of  conviviality,  at  that  Sunday  morning's  meal. 

The  weather  was  the  finest  to  be  imagined,  and  the  sunshine 
more  than  ever  seemed  "a  glorious  birth;"  but  the  party  all 
looked  like  so  many  blinking  owls  exposed  to  its  brilliancy. 
Madeline  seemed  absolutely  dull — pale  and  haggard,  and  not 
amiable  when  obliged  to  speak.  Christine  was  very  languid  ; 
Colonel  Steele  very  solicitous  to  know  if  she  were  ill,  and  very 
uncomfortable  at  her  coldness  and  apathy.  Mr.  Leslie  was 
engrossed  with  the  care  of  his  sprained  wrist  and  barked  shins, 
and  Mr.  Brockhulst's  state  of  mind  excused  his  silence.  The 
breakfast  would  not  have  been  a  long  one,  for  no  one  seemed 
inclined  to  eat  except  Mr.  Leslie — who  never  was  known  to 
refuse  his  oats — but  Mrs.  Sherman,  totally  thrown  off  her  ba 
lance  by  having  slept  on  a  straw  bed  and  dressed  herself  and 
come  down  without  a  cap,  revolted  openly  at  the  coffee,  and 
demanded  that  a  second  boiling  should  be  made.  This  occa 
sioned  great  delay,  and  the  second  attempt  proving  no  happier 
than  the  first,  Mrs..  Sherman  sent  word  she  would  try  ["the  tea. 
There  was  none  made.  Then  let  some  be  made.  Again  a 

9 


194  NO    SERVICE    AT   ST.    PHILIP'S. 

long  delay,  during  which  Mr.  Brockhulst  tried  to  steady  his 
mind  by  repeating  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles  to  himself,  and  say 
ing  the  multiplication-table  backwards. 

But  making  the  tea  was  a  long  operation  ;  the  kettle  had 
got  "  off  the  boil,"  and  the  fire  was  nearly  out,  the  coals 
having  been  raked  out  to  hurry  up  the  second  boiling  of 
coffee,  and  being  now  scattered  and  dead.  There  was  a  great 
flying  out  to  the  wood-pile  for  chips,  puffing  and  blowing  at 
the  coals,  and  anxious  listening  for  the  first  symptom  of  a 
simmer  from  the  kettle.  During  which  time  the  party  at  the 
table  thumped  a  little  with  their  egg-spoons,  munch ed  a  little 
toast,  now  very  cold,  talked  about  the  weather,  made  a  few 
poor  jokes  upon  the  breakfast,  listened  secretly  a  good  deal 
to  the  march  of  events  in  the  "  lean  to,"  and  tried  to  be 
polite  while  they  all  felt  very  much  exasperated. 

At  length  the  tea  came — very  feeble,  of  a  pale  copper  color, 
and  with  the  tea-leaves  floating  on  the  surface  ;  the  boiling  of 
the  water  having  been  anticipated  a  few  seconds  by  the  anx 
ious  maid,  and  the  making  of  the  tea  being  altogether  pre 
mature. 

Mrs.  Sherman  pushed  back  her  cup  and  rose  from  the 
table ;  would  Colonel  Steele  order  the  horses  to  the  door 
immediately — certainly  Colonel  Steele  would.  But  Patrick 
had  not  had  his  breakfast ;  ten  minutes  were  allowed  to  him, 
and  then  the  horses  were  at  the  door.  Although  Mrs.  Sher 
man  had  breakfasted  in  her  bonnet,  apparently  armed  cap-a- 
pie  for  travelling,  there  was  still  much  to  be  done  before  they 
were  en  route.  Madeline,  who  had  to  officiate  as  lady's  maid, 
could  not  make  her  gloves  button  nor  get  her  mantelet 
straight;  and  between  the  young  belle's  impatience  and  the 
old  belle's  self-will,  there  seemed  a  chance  they  would  spend 
the  balance  of  their  days  on  the mountain. 

Finally,  they  were  off! — just  as  the  hands  of  the  poor 
clergyman's  watch  marked  nine  twenty -five  ;  an  hour  for  a 


NO    SERVICE    AT    ST.    PHILIP'S.  195 

ten  miles'  ride,  of  which  six  were  of  the  roughest  nature,  and 
with  a  heavy  barouche,  and  horses  who  had  never  before 
been  together.  In  fact,  the  Colonel's  horse  was  very  little 
used  to  going  in  harness,  and  submitted  svith  a  very  bad 
grace  to  the  unaccustomed  yoke.  About  half  way  down  the 
mountain  he  began  to  kick,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  causing 
some  break  in  the  harness  which  necessitated  another  delay. 
Mr.  Brockhulst  and  the  coachman  at  last  tinkered  it  up,  and 
going  very  slowly  to  prevent  its  giving  way,  proceeded  on  their 
journey. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  delays  and  accidents  ;  at  half 

past  twelve  the  carriage  drove  into just  in  time  to  meet 

the  dispersing  members  of  the  Methodist,  the  Presbyterian, 
and  the  Baptist  meetings.  Mr.  Brockhulst  kept  his  seat  firmly, 
but  it  must  be  confessed  his  heart  sank  very  low  as  he  caught 
the  wondering  eyes  levelled  at  the  box  where  he  sat  beside 
the  coachman.  Of  course  they  met  the  Bishop :  that  he  was 
prepared  for.  He  had  felt  certain  of  it  ever  since  the  possi 
bility  of  this  detention  had  dawned  upon  his  mind.  She 
stared  at  the  carriage,  checked  herself  in  a  start  of  horror, 
pressed  her  lips  together,  and  walked  quickly  on. 

But  the  worst  of  it  was  passing  the  church  itself,  with  its 
shut  gate  and  locked  door;  the  seeing  half-a-dozen  Sunday- 
school  children  playing  together  at  a  corner,  and  the  knowing 
that  this  example  of  Sabbath-breaking  by  the  minister  was  sink 
ing  deep  into  their  minds.  To  do  the  young  minister  justice,  he 
only  thought  of  the  scandal  as  it  would  injure  others,  nevor 
with  the  foar  of  its  doing  him  personally  any  harm.  Poor 
fellow !  To  the  last  day  of  his  clerical  career  he  felt  the 
effects  of  that  Sunday's  history. 

And  Madeline  and  Christine  each  thought,  as  they  wel 
comed  the  quiet  of  their  own  rooms,  that  the  whole  expedition 
was  one  which  they  would  be  glad  to  banish  from  their  memory 
as  well  as  from  the  memory  of  all  who  had  had  part  in  it. 


196  OLD    HUNDRED. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

OLD    HUNDRED. 

"  A  noble  heart,  like  the  sun,  showeth  its  greatest  countenance  in  its  lowest  estate." 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

FROM  that  day  forth  Mr.  Brockhulst's  path  was  no  longer 
strewn  with  roses ;  those  that  bloomed  for  him  at  the  Hill 
were  too  thickly  beset  with  thorns  and  of  too  bitter  a  per 
fume  to  deserve  the  name  of  roses.  He  began  to  see  through 
Mrs.  Sherman,  and  the  sight  brought  him  alarm  and  humi 
liation.  He  began  to  understand  Madeline,  he  thought,  and 
the  knowledge  gave  him  bitter  pain.  The  certainty  that  he 
had  been  deceived  in  his  reading  of  the  one  character,  made 
him  more  certain  that  he  had  been  deceived  in  the  other. 
He  forswore  the  society  of  Madeline,  and  eschewed  the  Hill 
as  far  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  do,  considering  his  thou 
sand  parochial  entanglements  with  Mrs.  Sherman.  He  longed 
to  break  away  entirely  from  her  influence  and  manage  parish 
matters  as  seemed  good  to  him  himself.  But  that  was  not  so 
easy.  Mrs.  Sherman  had  got  things  in  her  own  hands,  and 
she  had  no  idea  of  giving  up  the  reins.  Mr.  Brockhulst  found 
himself  helpless ;  he  himself  had  appointed  Mrs.  Sherman  as 
the  head  of  the  two  charitable  societies  connected  with  the 
church,  and  had  placed  her  in  charge  of  the  parish  school. 

He  literally  found  himself  superseded  in  every  department 
but  the  strictly  clerical  one ;  he  still  preached  and  administered 
the  sacraments  at  his  own  discretion,  but  the  surplice  or  the 
cassock  in  which  he  did  it  were  not  at  all  discretionary. 
The  music  was  taken  entirely  out  of  his  control ;  the  change 


OLD    HUNDRED.  197 

worked  by  Mrs.  Sherman  in  this  department  caused  great 
rejoicing  among  the  more  refined  people  of  the  congregation, 
but  there  was  a  large  proportion  who  shook  their  heads  at 
the  strange  preludes  and  unfamiliar  chants,  and  sat  down 
doggedly  at  the  beginning  of  the  elongated  To  Deums  and 
pirouetting  solos  of  the  choir.  A  thoroughbred  organist  came 
up  every  Saturday  night  from  town ;  one  or  two  good  voices 
were  found  among  the  country  girls,  Colonel  Steele  sang  a 
fine  tenor,  and  Madeline  was  prima  donna.  Her  taste  in  music 
was  very  pure,  and  her  voice  of  extraordinary  power.  She 
had  found  her  greatest  pleasure  in  this  occupation  for  the 
past  month,  and  the  music  really  had  been  very  fine.  They 
were  beginning  to  talk  of  it  everywhere  in  town,  and  a  good 
many,  not  otherwise  interested,  were  attending  service  for  the 
pleasure  that  the  music  gave  them.  A  good  deal  that  was 
Popish  and  a  good  deal  that  was  operatic  was  of  course  dis 
covered  ;  but  still  people  came  to  listen  and  to  admire  and 
to  find  fault.  Certainly  the  choir  took  a  wide  range  in  their 
selections ;  if  Mr.  Brockhnlst  had  known  more  of  music  he 
would  have  been  the  first  to  have  restricted  them ;  but  he 
only  heard  the  voice  of  Madeline,  and  he  listened  for  nothing 
else. 

But  the  old-fashioned  people,  with  the  Bishop  at  their  head, 
were  alarmingly  disaffected.  Not  even  the  inroads  upon  the 
chancel  had  discdified  them  as  much,  nor  the  new  hours  for 
service,  nor  the  new  principles  upon  which  the  charities  were 
dispensed.  The  abolition  of  the  old  tunes  struck  a  blow  deeper 
than  all  these;  the  service  no  more  seemed  the  same  to  them ; 
the  church  was  no  longer  home. 

The  leader  in  the  choir  of  other  days,  a  great,  heavily-built 
man,  six  feet  tall,  with  a  chest  deep  as  an  ocean  cavern,  had 
given  up  his  place  with  the  best  and  most  forgiving  temper ; 
but  his  friends  could  not  submit  to  his  deposition  with  as  good 
a  grace.  He  was  a  favorite  in  the  parish,  and  in  the  town  as 


198  OLD    HUNDRED. 

well ;  in  his  slow  way,  he  was  a  good  neighbor,  a  good  brother, 
a  good  church  member,  and  had  spent  fifty  very  blameless  years 
among  the  people  of .  He  was  a  brother  of  Richard  Gil- 
more,  and  never  having  married,  was  a  good  deal  at  his 
brother's  house,  and  very  fond  of  Harry,  who  was  his  godson. 
He  had  more  energy  and  purpose  than  Richard  had,  and  was 
perhaps  in  every  way  a  stronger  man  ;  but  the  two  were  very 
much  alike  in  their  easy,  moderate  tempers,  and  their  safe  and 
wise  philosophy. 

Ever  since  he  had  been  old  enough  to  be  proud  of  his  deep, 
bass  voice,  it  had  been  at  the  service  of  the  church,  and  the 
great  pleasure  and  interest  of  his  life  grew  to  be  thorough  exer 
cise  of  this  gift  in  that  place.  He  was  a  really  devout  wor 
shipper,  with  a  good  deal  of  the  Methodist  in  him,  which  was, 
however,  satisfied  with  the  expression  that  it  found  in  music, 
and  which  endeared  to  his  great  heart  every  line  of  the  old 
hymns  he  had  sung  for  so  many  years.  His  voice  was  tremen 
dous,  an  unequalled  bass  or  strength  and  depth,  but  his  accent 
was  deplorable,  and  his  ear  not  of  the  best.  In  the  old  tunes 
to  which  he  was  accustomed  he  was  tolerably  correct,  but  it  was 
quite  impossible  for  him  to  turn  the  great  torrent  of  his  voice 
into  new  channels;  he  could  not  keep  up  with  the  new  organ 
ist,  and  could  not  learn  a  note  of  his  new  part ;  and  so  at  last 
he  told  the  choir  he  was  afraid  he'd  only  be  a  hindrance  to 
them,  and  he  thanked  'em  kindly  for  the  pains  they  had  been 
at  to  teach  him,  but  he  guessed  he'd  better  give  it  up,  and  he 
wished  'em  good  luck  in  all  heartiness,  and  then  he  took  up 
his  old  music  book,  and  with  something  swelling  up  painfully 
in  his  throat,  went  down  the  winding  steps  from  the  organ-loft 
for  the  last  time. 

On  the  next  Sunday,  even  the  musically-educated  people 
missed  his  deep,  familiar  bass  with  regret,  but  soon  all  was  for 
gotten  in  the  glory  of  the  new  achievements  of  the  choir.  His 
familiar  sobriquet  of  "Old  Hundred"  still  clung  to  him,  but 


OLD    HUNDRED.  199 

his  voice  was  never  heard  in  church,  and  only  resounded  now 
and  then  from  under  his  low,  blacksmith's  shed  between  the 
sturdy  strokes  that  echoed  from  the  anvil.  He  still  came  regu 
larly  to  church,  undeterred  by  the  evil  counsel  of  his  brother's 
wife,  who  was  very  bitter  against  the  aristocratical  intrusion. 
He  sat  under  the  gallery  and  looked  huge  and  clumsy,  and  very 
nuch  out  of  place,  following  the  sermon  with  painful  attention, 
aid  beating  time  involuntarily  to  the  music. 

Phoebe  Gilmore  took  up  the  affront  to  her  brother-in-law  very 
warmly.  She  left  the  church  herself,  and  would  have  with 
drawn  Harry  from  the  Sunday-school,  but  for  Richard's  posi 
tive  interdiction.  He  was  not  much  of  a  church-goer  him 
self,  but  he  meant  Harry  should  be  brought  up  to  be  ;  and  as 
soon  as  the  boy  was  well  enough,  he  sent  him  back  to  school ; 
but  Master  Harry  had  not  lain  on  the  bed  for  three  weeks 
and  listened  to  the  bitter  talk  of  his  mother  and  those  sympa 
thizing  neighbors  who  loved  to  hear  hard  facts  about  their 
betters,  without  acquiring  a  good  deal  of  knowledge  on  the 
subject.  He  imbibed  his  mother's  prejudices  in  a  degree,  and 
went  very  sullenly  back  to  Sunday-school,  where  he  made 
himself  so  troublesome,  and  showed  himself  so  stubborn,  that 
he  was  soon  complained  of  to  the  clergyman,  whose  experience 
with  him  in  the  class  of  every  day  made  him  quite  ready  to 
believe  the  worst  that  could  be  told. 

The  consequence  was,  a  warning  to  his  parents  that  unless  he 
proved  himself  more  docile,  he  would  be  dismissed  both  from 
day-school  and  from  Sunday-school.  There  was  a  terrible 
scene  at  the  cottage  after  this  occurred,  but  Richard  again  car 
ried  the  day,  for  the  second  time  since  this  protracted  campaign 
commenced,  and  Harry  was  sent  back  to  school,  with  so  bad 
a  disposition  towards  it,  though,  that  the  course  to  be  pursued 
with  him  became  a  subject  of  serious  discussion. 

Mr.  Brockhulst  consulted  several  of  his  vestrymen,  who  unani 
mously  advised  him  (with  the  sound  judgment  usually  dis- 


200  OLD    HUNDRED. 

played  by  people  who  only  hear  half  a  case)  not  to  be  tor 
mented  with  the  little  rascal  any  further,  but  to  dismiss  him 
from  the  school.  So,  to  poor  Richard's  great  dismay,  this  at 
last  was  done,  and  Harry  came  home  one  morning,  flushed 
and  frightened,  with  the  dread  letter  in  his  hand. 

Poor  Harry !  The  seeds  that  that  morning's  experience 
planted  were  the  deadly  growth  that  blasted  his  whole  future. 
He  did  not  deserve  such  a  fate,  happy,  honest-hearted  little 
loafer,  believing  only  what  his  passionate  mother  taught  him 
and  acting  up  to  the  knowledge  he  possessed.  In  her  vindic 
tive  utterings  he  thought  he  heard  the  truth  ;  in  the  depressed 
and  gloomy  looks  of  his  father,  he  read  a  confirmation  of  the 
fate  that  turned  every  one  against  him. 

Phoebe  Gilmore,  indeed,  had  excuse  for  some  of  her  com 
plaints.  Harry  always  had  been  treated  harshly.  Julian 
Upham  set  him  on  to  much  of  his  evil  doings,  and  then  left 
him  to  bear  the  punishment.  And  now,  since  this  notorious 
affair  in  which  Julian  had  so  nearly  proved  the  murderer  of 
Harry,  things  had  gone  on  just  the  same  as  ever,  and  had  cul 
minated  in  the  dismissal  of  Harry  and  the  entire  escape  of 
Julian  from  chastisement. 

It  was  not  very  much  wonder  that  money,  and  the  authority 
that  money  brings,  explained  all  this  to  Phoebe's  mind  ;  and 
the  contempt  thrown  on  her  brother-in-law's  faithful  services 
for  so  many  years,  swelled  the  weight  of  grievances  beyond  her 
power  of  mind.  Her  ambition  had  been  baulked  in  so  many 
ways,  it  turned  into  a  resentment  against  those  who  had  so 
baulked  it,  and  she  had  no  stronger  feeling  now  than  the  desire 
to  oppose  and  injure  them.  She  not  only  left  the  Church  and 
made  herself  prominent  in  another,  but  she  spread  all  manner 
of  evil  reports  regarding  those  from  whose  communion  she 
withdrew.  Indeed,  such  a  scandal  was  created  by  what  she 
said  of  the  young  minister  and  Mrs.  Sherman's  ruling  voice  in 
everything,  that  the  whole  town  was  soon  strongly  prejudiced 


OLD   HUNDRED.  201 

against  the  clergyman  and  his  lady  patroness,  and  the  matter 
came  to  the  ears  of  those  concerned. 

Mrs.  Sherman  was  strongly  excited,  and  allowed  her  husband 
no  rest  day  or  night  till  he  consented  to  give  Richard  Gilmore 
warning  that  the  mill  and  cottage  would  be  wanted  for  another 
tenant  after  his  lease  expired.  His  lease  was  very  near  its  ex 
piration,  and  this  was  truly  a  heavy  blow  to  the  easy  -going  man 
who  had  never  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of  ending  his  days 
under  any  other  roof.  It  was  like  beginning  the  world  afresh, 
and  for  the  first  day  or  two  he  went  about  the  old  mill  and  its 
surroundings  like  a  person  in  a  dream. 

Unfortunately,  during  these  events,  Dr.  Upham  was  confined 
by  illness  to  his  room.  It  was  some  time  before  it  came  to  his 
ears  that  Phoebe  Gilmore  had  left  the  church  and  was  in  such 
a  state  of  mind  regarding  it.  He  sent  for  her  to  come  to  him 
several  times,  but  she  never  came,  and  so  all  chance  of  his 
influence  was  lost.  Christine  she  treated  with  such  coldness, 
it  became  impossible  to  do  her  any  good  through  her,  and  the 
result  was,  Phoebe  went  on  in  her  unfortunate  and  sinful  course 
unchecked  by  any  voice  but  that  of  her  mild  husband  and  his 
brother.  Harry's  dismissal  from  the  school,  however,  and  the 
notice  to  Richard  to  give  up  the  mill,  were  so  many  arguments 
on  her  side  she  thought,  and  indeed  for  a  while  did  silence  her 
advisers. 

Meanwhile,  Richard  began  to  look  slowly  round  him  for 
something  to  do  next  spring  when  his  day  of  going  out  should 
come.  Harry  was  turned  loose  on  the  town,  and  was  fast 
becoming  a  little  vagabond.  Phoebe  still  sowed  her  angry 
seeds  of  mischief.  Mrs.  Sherman  still  did  the  Lady  Bountiful, 
and  worked  maliciously  to  put  down  the  Bishop  and  Phoebe 
and  the  disaffected.  Mr.  Brockhulst  grew  paler  and  thinner, 
and  worked  himself  to  death  without  any  heart  in  his  work, 
knowing  that  there  was  a  fault  somewhere  hidden  in  it  that 
turned  it  into  failure.  Dr.  Upham  watched  the  troubles  from 

9* 


202  OLD   HUNDRED. 

his  quiet  room  of  sickness  with  many  regrets,  but  with  a  seri 
ous  trust  that  they  would  all  terminate  harmoniously.  Chris 
tine  felt  them  deeply,  and  kept  as  much  away  from  the  Hill  as 
it  was  possible  for  her  to  do,  and  tried  to  throw  all  her  influence 
on  Mr.  Brockhulst's  side.  Madeline  was  in  a  strange  state  of 
restlessness  and  perverseness,  now  throwing  herself  heart  and 
soul  into  the  quarrel,  and  riding  rough-shod  over  all  the  village 
people  who  had  meddled  in  the  matter,  and  now  tossing  it  all 
aside  in  disgust  and  laughing  at  both  sides,  and  doing  a  great 
deal  of  harm  to  all.  Dr.  Catherwood  looked  on  thoughtfully, 
and  saw  no  way  of  doing  good,  and  so  was  silent ;  spending 
most  of  his  evenings  at  home,  never  going  to  the  Hill  and  Par 
sonage  unless  expressly  sent  for,  and  working  with  his  usual 
kindness  among  the  poor  and  suffering. 

And  so  the  heat  of  summer  evaporated  and  crystallized  itself 
into  the  bright,  clear,  sparkling  days  of  autumn  ;  the  nuts  were 
brown  in  the  forests,  the  grapes  hung  ripe  on  the  garden  walls, 
the  leaves  began  to  fall  from  the  trees  that  shaded  the  broad 
streets,  and  the  hillsides  grew  yellow  and  brown. 


THE    EXD    OF   THE    SUMMER'S    CAMPAIGN.  203 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  END  OF  THE  SUMMER'S  CAMPAIGN. 

"  Then  hey,  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher ;  then  hey,  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 
Then  hey,  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher  ;  the  nice  yellow  guineas  for  me." 

BURNS. 

IT  was  one  of  the  last  and  brightest  days  ot  October;  Made 
line  Clybourne's  little  room  was  full  of  trunks  and  boxes,  and 
dresses,  folded  and  unfolded,  and  Madeline  herself,  with  a  dis 
contented  air,  lay  on  the  bed  with  a  novel  in  her  hand.  Mrs. 
Clybournc,  with  a  very  harassed  and  worn  expression,  was 
busied  about  the  packing ;  Madeline  felt  this  was  not  right,  she 
had  made  a  great  many  remonstrances,  and  in  truth  would  have 
been  more  comfortable  to  have  tired  herself  out  with  the  work 
than  to  have  lain  still  and  watched  her  mother  do  it.  But  she 
had  not  been  very  well  for  the  last  month,  and  she  was  bidden 
to  keep  quiet  and  to  save  herself  for  the  evening.  In  the  even 
ing  all  the  people  from  the  Hill,  Christine  and  one  or  two 
others,  were  coming  there  to  tea.  The  next  morning  Mrs. 
Sherman  was  going  to  town  for  the  winter ;  the  house  at  the 

Hill  would  once  more  be  closed,  and  the  gay  season  of was 

at  its  end. 

Mrs.  Sherman  was  secretly  glad  to  be  going.  She  was  a  lit 
tle  tired  of  "  Dorcas"  and  the  ragged  school ;  and  the  Bishop 
and  her  colleagues  were  bearing  pretty  hard  upon  her.  She 
felt  as  if  the  town  would  be  a  very  welcome  change,  and  she 

was  turning  her  back  on  with  a  feeling  of  some  relief. 

She  thought  the  church  should  take  care  of  itself  another  year  ; 
it  had  proved  ungrateful.     She  had  been  very  anxious  to  take 


204  THE    END   OF   THE   SUMMERS    CAMPAIGN. 

Christine  and  Madeline  both  with  her  for  a  visit,  to  take  off  the 
edge  of  the  first  few  days'  ennui,  but  Christine  was  not  to  be 
persuaded,  and  only  Madeline  was  going.  Mrs.  Clybourne  had 
consented  very  readily  to  her  daughter's  being  absent  for  a 
month,  and  she  sincerely  hoped  the  month  might  be  prolonged 
into  the  season.  It,  wsis  Madeline's  only  chance  of  seeing  so 
ciety  at  all,  for  her  wardrobe,  her  musical  education,  and  the 
additional  expenses  of  their  more  enlarged  way  of  living,  had 
already,  in  these  few  months,  eaten  up  two-thirds  of  the  widow's 
narrow  income. 

The  wrinkles  were  deepening  fast  in  Mrs.  Clybourne's  hand 
some  face ;  she  Looked  thin  and  worn,  and  excepting  in  society, 
was  troubled  and  silent ;  Madeline  felt  very  unhappy  atliome — • 
things  were  not  going  right  about  the  money,  she  was  sure,  al 
though  her  mother  made  no  confidante  of  her.  She  gave  her 
handsome  clothes,  and  though  Madeline  wanted  the  handsome 
clothes  and  yearned  for  them  with  the  ardor  of  a  young  and 
pretty  woman,  she  felt  uncomfortable  at  every  dollar  that  was 
expended  for  her  decoration,  and  felt  vaguely  that  it  was  not 
right,  and  that  she  should  have  more  self-respect  and  be  more 
happy  if  she  could  get  altogether  out  of  this  state  of  things. 
She  hoped  it  would  not  last  long ;  of  course  it  would  not,  she 
should  soon  be  in  a  position  to  relieve  her  mother's  cares  and  to 
forget  there  was  such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  the  cares  that  nar 
row  incomes  bring.  No  doubt  it  would  have  been  nobler  in 
Madeline  to  have  stood  still  for  a  moment,  looked  before  and 
after,  shaken  off  the  shackles  of  education  and  prejudice,  re 
leased  herself  from  the  trammels  of  the  world,  and  taken  the 
purer  and  freer  life.  But  Madeline  was  very  young,  ill-taught 
in  her  duty,  and  strong  in  her  ambition,  and  her  respect  for  her 
mother  was  still  too  great  to  admit  of  her  independent  action. 

Mrs.  Clybourne  was  relieved  on  more  accounts  than  one,  to 
have  her  go  with  Mrs.  Sherman.  She  saw  that  Madeline's  stay 
at  home  during  these  quiet  winter  months  could  have  but  one 


THE   END    OF    TUB    SUMMER'S    CAMPAIGN.  205 

result — after  the  turmoil  and  excitement  of  life  at  the  Hill  was 
over,  there  would  be  nothing  to  counteract  the  germ  of  senti 
ment  which  the  mother  had  been  so  long  combating ;  she 
knew  her  daughter's  heart  much  better  than  the  daughter  did 
herself.  The  young  clergyman  was  a  worse  enemy  to  Mrs. 
Clybourne's  peace  than  even  the  fast  melting  income  was. 
She  bad  seen  from  the  first  the  sort  of  romance  that  surround 
ed  him  in  Madeline's  eyes ;  she  had  interpreted  correctly  her 
sudden  interest  in  church  and  charity.  She  knew  what  her 
restlessness  and  uncertain  temper  meant — her  delight  in  sacred 
music,  her  enthusiasm  for  certain  books  and  theories.  She  was 
much  too  wise  to  betray  the  discoveries  she  had  made.  Made 
line  never  guessed  her  mother  had  a  suspicion  of  the  foolish 
thoughts  that  were  dancing  through  her  head  all  day,  nor  that 
to  her  insight  she  owed  it  that  they  were  so  often  broken  in 
upon  and  scattered  by  suggestions  of  ambition  and  hopes  of 
admiration  and  conquest  in  society.  Madeline  did  not  know 
exactly  whether  she  wanted  to  go  to  town  or  not ;  her  mother 
filled  her  head  with  ideas  of  the  pleasures  that  she  had  in  pros 
pect,  but  her  heart  was  clinging  unconsciously  to  the  summer's 
romance.  She  was  angry  and  mortified  by  the  neglect  to 
which  she  could  not  blind  herself,  but  she  felt  a  ho^e  that  her 
absence  would  prove  too  strong  a  trial  to  him,  and  she  should 
see  him  at  Mrs.  Sherman's  house  in  town,  long  before  her  visit 
there  was  ended. 

The  summer's  campaign,  gay  as  it  had  been  and  full  of  plea 
sure  to  the  daughter,  had  been  anything  but  satisfactory  to  the 
mother.  Among  all  the  men  who  had  surrounded  Madeline,  and 
whose  attentions  to  her  had  been  lavish,  there  was  not  one  whom 
she  could  think  of  marrying,  or  who,  in  fact,  seemed  to  think  of 
marrying  her.  Society,  just  then,  was  full  of  very  young  and 
very  insignificant  men.  Some  of  the  gayest  and  most  desira 
ble  of  these  stayed  constantly  at  Mrs.  Sherman's  house  ;  they 
were  exquisites  in  dress,  some  of  them  tolerably  amiable  and 


206  THE    END    OF    THE    SUMMER'S    CAMPAIGN. 

well  bred,  but  most  of  them  indifferently  educated,  belonging  to 
families  of  no  social  importance,  and  all,  without  exception,  una 
ble  to  marry  any  one  who  had  not  a  fortune  to  bring  to  them. 
Mrs.  Clybourne,  used  to  the  more  refined  and  exclusive  society 
of  the  last  generation,  could  with  difficulty  reconcile  herself  to 
the  necessity  of  Madeline's  associating  with  such  men ;  but  see 
ing  that  her  success  as  a  beauty  depended  upon  her  favor  with 
such  as  these,  she  laid  aside  her  prejudices  as  became  a  faith 
ful  mother,  and  entertained  them  at  her  house,  and  bade  Made 
line  be  amiable  among  them.  She  could  not  fail  to  see  that 
constant  intercourse  with  young  men  for  whom  she  felt  no 
shadow  of  respect,  and  whose  manners  were  free  and  careless 
with  every  one  they  met,  had  lowered  and  altered  Madeline's 
tone  of  thought ;  and  not  only  her  tone  of  thought,  but  her 
manners,  her  style  of  dress,  her  choice  of  language,  had  suffered 
a  shade  of  change.  Only  a  shade,  however;  for  the  magnet 
within,  with  all  its  trembling  vibrations,  was  as  yet  pointing 
true,  and  the  careful  mother's  whole  ingenuity  was  now  ex 
pended  in  shattering  that  guide  and  diverting  that  strong  influ 
ence. 

This  bright,  cool  October  day  was  a  very  trying  one  to  Mrs. 
Clybourne  ;' besides  packing  Madeline's  trunks  and  putting  the 
last  stitch  upon  a  dozen  things,  neglected  by  the  careless  wearer, 
and  ordering  and  preparing  tea  for  perhaps  a  dozen  guests  (no 
insignificant  duty  this  in  such  a  household  as  hers),  she  had 
two  great  weights  upon-  her  mind ;  the  first  was,  the  news  of 
the  illness  of  one  of  Susie's  children,  at  whose  bedside  she  felt 
she  ought  to  be ;  and  the  second,  the  arrival  home,  the  day  be 
fore,  of  her  worthless  young  son,  Raymond.  He  had  turned  up 
at  intervals  ever  since  she  had  first  sent  him  off,  at  the  precise 
moment  when  she  had  felt  that  a  straw  more  would  break  her 
down  completely.  She  had,  at  this  time,  been  feeling  quite 
safe  about  him,  and  had,  perhaps,  been  a  little  more  lavish  in 
her  expenditures  on  account  of  this  very  security  that  he  was 


THE    END    OF   THE    SUMMER'S    CAMPAIGN.  207 

doing  well,  and  was  out  of  the  way  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
With  great  effort  she  had  obtained  for  him  a  valuable  clerkship 
in  a  mercantile  house  in  China,  where  with  decent  industry  she 
was  assured  he  could  not  fail  to  rise.  She  knew  he  had  not 
decent  industry  and  she  did  not  expect  him  to  rise ;  she  only 
hoped  that  as,  in  the  strict  discharge  of  duty,  very  little  was 
required  of  him,  he  might  sit  still  for  a  while.  Alas!  he  would 
not  even  consent  to  do  that ;  he  did  not  find  life  in  Shanghai 
to  his  taste ;  he  came  back  in  the  next  steamer  and  presented 
himself  at  home  without  any  other  excuse  for  what  he  had 
done  than  that  it  was  "too  deuced  unpleasant  hot" 

Poor  Mrs.  Clybourne  !  Here  he  was  again  upon  her  hands 
with  his  expensive  tastes  and  reckless  habits,  when  by  the  strict 
est  economy  she  had  hoped  to  struggle  through  the  winter  by 
herself,  while  Madeline  stayed  in  town ;  and  he  was  sach  an 
injury  to  Madeline  at  just  this  time  ;  a  loafer  of  a  brother,  having 
neither  dignity  to  protect  nor  good  name  to  advantage  a  sister, 
is  always  a  serious  drawback  to  her  success.  No  man  wants  to 
marry  a  girl  whose  brother  is  sure  to  be  a  disgrace,  and  whose 
family  are  a  dead  weight  on  his  hands.  If  Raymond  had  only 
stayed  a  year  away  till  Madeline's  future  lot  was  settled,  he 
might  then  have  come  back,  and  his  mother  would  have  shared 
her  slender  income  with  him  cheerfully,  nay,  given  him  all  of  it 
that  necessity  did  not  claim,  for  she  had  no  ambition  but  the 
success  and  advancement  of  her  children. 

Meanwhile,  she  felt  her  duty  was  growing  a  hopelessly  heavy 
burden,  and  that  life  presented  few  charms  to  her  of  any  kind. 
Middle  life  is  always  a  trying,  weary  point  in  the  long  journey, 
even  to  those  whose  aims  are  high  ;  but  when  only  lighted  by 
ambition,  and  still  consecrated  to  the  world  in  however  generous 
a  form,  it  is  gloomy  beyond  expression. 


208  ANOTHER   CHANGE. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ANOTHER  CHANGE. 

"  The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies, 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies ; 
The  stream  dries  up,  the  star  is  shot, 
The  flight  is  past,  and  man  forgot." 

KINO. 

THE  little  parlor  of  Mrs.  Clybourne's  cottage  looked  bright  and 
cheerful  enough  to  satisfy  even  its  weary  mistress  that  evening. 
People  from  large  houses  often  enjoy  being  entertained  in  small 
ones,  and  Mrs.  Sherman  said  with  great  truth,  the  hours  she 
spent  at  Mrs.  Clybourne's  were  among  the  pleasantest  she  had 

ever  known  in . 

She  was  very  tired  of  her  great  rooms  and  the  monotonous 
march  of  events  in  her  household  economy.  She  often  declared 
Mrs.  Clybourne  the  happiest  of  women  in  having  such  a  little 
bijou  of  a  house,  without  any  care  at  all,  without  any  housekeeper 
to  feel  her  importance  and  ride  over  her  ;  without  any  men- 
servants  to  get  impudent  and  be  discharged ;  without  any 
orders  to  give  for  dinner-parties,  and  without  the  Judge  to  be 
dissatisfied  with  whatever  she  might  do.  Mrs.  Clybourne 
always  smiled,  and  said  cheerfully  :  "  Yes,  it  was  very  pleasant ; 
certainly  she  had  a  great  deal  to  be  thankful  for."  She  knew 
very  well  she  should  gain  nothing  by  asking  sympathy  in  her 
mean  and  unromantic  trials  ;  poverty  is  not  a  misfortune  that 
exalts  the  sufferer.  Money  troubles  are  troubles  that  had  better 
be  kept  always  in  the  background.  Mrs.  Clybourne  was  wisely 
silent  about  the  years  of  her  life,  if  they  were  all  put  together, 


ANOTHER    CHANGE.  209 

which  she  had  spent  in  worrying  to  get  the  ends  together,  in 
little  devices  to  stretch  out  a  cobweb  along  an  acre  without 
breaking  it — the  dulling  of  her  "  cunning  brain,"  the  drying  up 
and  exhausting  of  all  her  nobler  feelings,  in  the  contemptible 
but  inevitable  struggle  with  the  little,  mean,  and  sordid  part  of 
living. 

She  meant,  generously,  that  Madeline  should  know  nothing 
of  this ;  but  Madeline  was  too  quick  to  be  deceived  ;  she  knew 
there  was  pinching  poverty  at  the  bottom  of  her  mother's  purse, 
so  rigidly  shut  against  all  self-indulgences,  so  conscientiously 
opened  whenever  her  amusement  or  advantage  was  in  question. 
And  the  only  way  to  end  all  this  was  for  her  to  make  a  wealthy 
marriage,  which  she  had  a  general  intention  of  doing,  though 
she  had  grown  rather  averse  to  thinking  about  it,  except  in  a 
very  general  and  indefinite  way. 

Although  she  had  been  ennuyee  and  out  of  spirits  all  day, 
she  looked  very  well  and  was  very  brilliant  in  the  evening. 
Mrs.  Sherman  had  the  Colonel,  Mr.  Leslie,  and  a  Mr.  Bowden, 
staying  at  the  Hill,  whom  she  brought  with  her  ;  Christine,  who 
was  looking  her  prettiest  in  a  white  dress  and  the  favorite  mala 
chites  ;  and  two  of  the  Miss  Richfielcls,  completed  the  party.  Mr. 
Brockhulst  had  been  too  much  engaged  to  come,  and  Dr. 
Cathcrwood,  as  usual,  had  found  some  excuse  for  staying  away. 
Raymond  was  very  gentlemanly  looking,  in  fact  it  was  the  only 
thing  he  was,  and  it  generally  carried  him  through  a  month  of 
favor  with  those  he  met  for  the  first  time,  and  Mrs.  Sherman 
with  her  usual  discrimination  was  making  quite  a  hero  of  him. 
She  regretted  he  had  come  back  just  as  they  were  going  away  ; 
he  would  have  added  so  much  to  the  pleasure  of  their  summer; 
but  he  must  come  and  stay  with  them  in  town  while  Madeline 
was  there  ;  she  should  not  let  him  off  without  a  promise. 

Mrs.  Sherman  was  fond  of  cards,  and  Raymond  of  course 
played  with  her.  The  others  all  fell  into  the  same  amusement, 
and  presently  every  one  was  more  or  less  engrossed  with  whist 


210  ANOTHER    CHANGE. 

At  the  end  of  one  game  at  his  table,  while  shuffling  the 
cards  for  the  beginning  of  another,  Raymond  said  in  his  slow, 
lounging  manner  :  "What  do  you  think  I  heard  in  the  town 
this  afternoon  ?  Mr.  Brockhulst  has  resigned,  and  his  resigna 
tion  has  been  unanimously  accepted." 

"  What !"  cried  Mrs.  Sherman,  with  a  start,  while  Madeline 
dropped  her  cards  into  her  lap. 

"  Impossible !"  cried  several  voices. 

"  I  have  not  the  least  faith  in  it,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sherman, 
while  the  elder  Miss  Richfield  said  wisely,  it  did  not  surprise 
her  in  the  least,  from  what  she  had  heard  her  father  say.  Now 
Mr.  Richfield  was  a  warden,  and  all  eyes  turned  upon  Miss 
Richfield  with  great  interest.  Miss  Richfield  felt  herself 
invested  with  a  good  deal  of  importance  from  that  circumstance, 
and  declined  to  be  explicit,  as  people  always  do  when  they  feel 
themselves  invested  with  importance  ;  but  she  could  only  say, 
it  did  not  surprise  her  in  the  least ;  on  the  contrary,  it  would 
have  surprised  her  much  more  if  he  had  not  resigned.  This 
was  confirmation  sure,  corning  from  a  warden's  daughter,  and 
the  fact  was  accepted  in  its  naked  deformity. 

"  The  ungrateful  man,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sherman,  with  great 
•warmth  of  manner ;  "  after  all  I  have  done  for  him — well,  I 
never  shall  believe  in  clergymen  again." 

A  great  laugh  of  approval  from  the  gentlemen  followed  this 
remark ;  ecclesiastical  stock  was  going  down,  they  said  ;  now 
there  would  be  some  chance  of  appreciation  for  the  laity. 

"  Yes,"  drawled  Raymond,  "  now  I  shan't  be  waked  up  every 
morning  by  that  horrid  bell  at  six." 

"  Now  Miss  Christine  will  have  time  to  do  something  besides 
go  to  church,"  said  Colonel  Steele. 

"And  Miss  Madeline  will  not  be  always  working  sermon- 
covers,  and  Gothic  pattern  slippers,"  added  Mr.  Leslie. 

"  And  there  will  not  be  any  more  Fairs  at  present,  I  sup 
pose,"  said  Mr.  Bowden,  who  had  an  aggrieved  recollection 


ANOTHER    CHANGE.  211 

of  the  money  he  had  been  obliged  to  spend  at  the  recent 
festivity  at  the  Hill. 

"  Shan't  you  see  him  to  say  good-by  to  him,  Mrs.  Sher 
man  ?"  asked  Madeline,  trying  to  be  very  nonchalant  as  she 
assorted  her  cards.  "My  lead,  did  you  say?"  and  she  played 
the  queen  of  trumps  at  random. 

"Miss  Madeline!  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  cried  Mr. 
Xeslie. 

While  Mrs.  Sherman  answered  absently  as  she  put  down  her 
king  :  "See  him  1  Why,  no,  unless  he  should  come  up  in  the 
morning.  But  he  will  probably  be  in  town  after  a  day  or  two, 
and  then  I  shall  tell  him  what  I  think  of  him.  Mr.  Clybourne, 
if  I  only  knew  what  trumps  you  held  !" 

And  so  the  great  news  came  and  passed,  and  beyond  a  few 
allusions  to  it  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  there  was  no  further 
interest  shown.  Christine  felt  glad  that  it  was  over.  She  had 
known  this  or  something  worse  must  come,  and  now  it  was  a 
relief  to  feel  he  was  going  away.  She  wondered  to  see  Made 
line  taking  it  so  quietly,  but  after  all,  she  must  have  been  mis 
taken  in  Madeline's  feelings  towards  him.  The  fact  was,  Made 
line  was  thinking,  "  I  shall  surely  see  him  in  a  day  or  two  in 
town,  and  then  there  will  be  an  explanation.  He  will  stay  at 
Mrs.  Sherman's,  and  it  will  be  all  made  up." 

Christine  had  Colonel  Steele  for  her  partner,  and  she  was 
dreading  every  moment  the  breaking  up  of  the  party,  and  the 
possibility  of  his  going  home  with  her.  It  was  a  short  distance 
to  the  Parsonage ;  Ann,  the  waitress,  was  coming  for  her  at 
half-past  ten  o'clock,  but  she  knew  very  well  Colonel  Steele 
would  make  Ann  go  back  and  would  walk  with  her  himself. 
This  would  be  his  last  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  till  she 
came  to  town  to  pay  Mrs.  Sherman  the  visit  her  father  had 
promised  for  next  month  ;  and  Christine  was  very  right  in  con 
jecturing  he  meant  to  find  a  chance  to  speak  with  her.  He 
rightly  divined,  if  she  had  any  kindness  for  him,  this  was  the 


212  ANOTHER    CHANGE. 

best  moment,  when  the  freedom  of  country  life  was  still  on  his 
side,  the  sentiment  called  up  by  the  ended  summer,  and  the 
breaking  up  of  a  pleasant  and  intimate  companionship.  He 
played  rather  an  inattentive  game,  he  was  listening  so  carefully 
for  Ann's  step  on  the  piazza,  and  was  so  much  afraid  lest  Leslie, 
or  Bowden,  or  that  wretched  Raymond  should  get  before  him 
in  sending  Ann  away,  and  saying  :  "  Miss  Upham,  it  is  too 
early  yet;  you  must  let  me  walk  over  to  the  Parsonage  with 
you  after  our  game  is  ended." 

Christine  was  listening,  too,  for  Ann's  approach  ;  it  was  not 
quite  half-past  ten  when  she  heard  the  gate  open  ;  her  heart  gave 
a  nervous  little  bound,  and  she  resolved  afresh  upon  the  words 
to  use  in  declining  Colonel  Steele's  kind  offer  and  going  off 
instantly  and  alone  with  Ann.  Colonel  Steele  heard  the  gate 
open,  too,  and  the  words  prepared  an  hour  ago  were  upon  his 
lips,  when  a  step  came  on  the  piazza,  which  was  not  Ann's  by 
any  chance.  It  was  a  man's  tread  ;  it  crossed  the  piazza, 
entered  the  hall,  and  the  parlor  door  opened  and  admitted  Dr. 
Catherwood. 

Colonel  Steele  ground  his  teeth  together.  The  moment 
Christine  caught  sight  of  him  she  dropped  her  cards  and  half 
rose,  and  ejaculated  in  an  apprehensive  tone,  "  Julian  ?" 

Dr.  Catherwood's  brow  contracted  for  an  instant ;  it  was  not 
pleasant  to  feel  the  sight  of  him  brought  a  painful  association 
only.  "  Well,  what  about  Julian  ?"  he  said,  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  as  he  went  up  to  the  table  where  Mrs.  Clybourne  sat,  and 
apologized  for  neglecting  her  invitation. 

"  I  fancied  he  might  be  ill  and  you  had  come  for  me,"  she 
said,  not  entirely  reassured  by  his  deliberation. 

"  Well,  I  have  come  for  you,"  he  answered,  returning  to  her 
side  ;  "  and  Julian  is  ill,  but  not  seriously.  Now  !  no  alarm,  no 
hurry ;  I  assure  you  he  is  not  much  amiss.  Go,  get  your  cloak 
while  I  make  your  excuses  for  you ;  I  know  you  will  have  no 
peace  till  you  get  back  to  him." 


ANOTHER    CHANGE.  213 

Christine  disappeared  before  he  had  finished  speaking,  and 
when  she  returned  she  hardly  gave  him  time  to  say  good-night. 
Mrs.  Sherman,  however,  seized  her  and  detained  her  several 
minutes,  kissing  her  good-by,  and  making  her  confirm  her 
father's  promise  about  her  visit  in  November,  and  all  the  gen 
tlemen  had  much  to  say  about  their  hopes  of  seeing  her  very 
soon  in  the  city  for  the  winter,  and  Madeline  had  a  great  many 
kisses  to  give  and  many  charges  about  writing,  and  Colonel 
Steelc  had  to  content  himself  with  a  mere  good-by,  and  see 
her  leave  the  house  with  the  man  of  whom,  notwithstanding  all 
his  protests,  he  was  sure  he  had  reason  to  be  much  afraid. 


214  PHCEBE  GILMORK'S  REMORSE. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

PHCEBE  GILMORE'S  REMORSE. 

"  And  is  there  in  God's  world  so  drear  a  place, 
Where  the  loud  bitter  cry  is  rais'd  in  vain  ? 
Where  tears  of  penance  come  too  late  for  grace, 
Aa  on  th'  uprooted  flower  the  genial  rain  ?" 

KEBLE. 

WHILE  Mrs.  Sherman  and  the  party  at  the  Clybournes'  glanced 
off  their  cards  and  chatted  in  parenthesis  of  Mr.  Brockhnlst's 
resignation,  another  group,  in  another  very  different  room, 
talked  in  a  very  different  way  about  it. 

A  tallow  candle  stood  on  the  deal-table  of  the  kitchen  in  the 
miller's  house ;  Phoebe  sitting  beside  it,  flashed  her  bright,  sharp 
needle  in  and  out  the  heavy  piece  of  work  upon  her  lap,  bent 
her  head  down  and  listened  silently  to  the  two  men  talking  by 
her,  only  emitting  now  and  then  from  her  black  eyes  a  gleam 
of  malicious  pleasure,  or  from  her  compressed  lips  a  sharp  and 
stinging  sentence.  Harry,  on  a  bench  beside  the  fire,  roasted 
chestnuts  in  the  ashes,  and  did  not  lose  a  word  said  by  his 
elders.  The  miller  and  his  brother  were  talking  moderately 
and  sensibly ;  the  miller's  wife  was  giving  point  and  venom  to 
all  their  matter-of-fact  remarks.  She  had  a  secret  consciousness 
that  she  had  helped  to  bring  this  work  about,  and  it  gave  her  a 
triumphant  pleasure,  but  also  a  little  sensation  of  remorse  and 
apprehension.  It  piqued  her  that  neither  her  husband  nor  his 
brother  would  express  the  exultation  that  they  should  have  felt 
in  the  downfall  of  the  minister. 

Old  Hundred,  sitting  forward   with  his   elbows  squared  and 


PHCEBE  GILMORE'S  REMORSE.  215 

his  bands  upon  his  knees,  said  openly  that  he  was  sorry  that 
the  young  minister  had  not  tried  a  little  longer  ;  it  was  a  pity 
for  a  man  to  give  up  heart  the  first  mistake  he  made.  Richard 
did  not  say  much  one  way  or  the  other ;  the  fact  was,  Harry's  dis 
missal  from  school  was  a  sore  thing  with  him  yet ;  if  he  had  been 
capable  of  bearing  malice  towards  any  human  being,  he  would 
have  borne  it  towards  the  man  who  had,  however  ignorantly, 
struck  him  in  the  softest  and  tenderest  corner  of  his  heart.  He 
felt  that  his  boy  was  injured  and  hardly  dealt  by,  and  he  could 
not  quite  forgive  the  offender.  His  heart  was  sore  about  a  good 
many  tilings — and  very  heavy  when  he  thought  about  the 
future.  He  did  not  see  what  he  was  to  do.  At  his  time  of 
life  it  was  hard  to  begin  the  world  afresh ;  things  looked  insur 
mountable  to  him  now,  that,  when  he  was  a  younger  man,  would 
have  presented  no  barrier  at  all ;  all  doubts  were  burdens,  and 
all  burdens  lay  like  lead  upon  him.  Still  he  was  not  bitter, 
nor  morose,  not  even  sullen  ;  only  silent,  and  heavy,  and 
depressed. 

His  brother  came  down  almost  every  evening  now,  for  he 
felt  that  Richard  needed  him ;  and  though  there  was  little  said 
or  done  to  clear  up  the  cloud,  still  the  trouble  drew  them  close 
together  and  made  a  sort  of  strength  between  them. 

Old  Hundred  had  not  much  to  offer  Richard,  except  his 
strong  hand  and  great  kind  heart.  He  was  not  the  sort  of  man 
to  be  a  prosperous  man  ;  he  had  worked  hard  all  his  life,  but  his 
earnings  had  not  stayed  by  him ;  and  poor  relations  and  poor 
neighbors  had  had  no  compassion  on  his  purse.  All  that  he  had, 
and  it  was  very  little,  was  understood  to  be  for  Harry  when  he 
was  done  with  it.  He  began  to  wish  now,  when  he  saw  his 
brother's  trouble  and  saw  no  way  out  of  it,  that  he  had  been 
a  little  harder-hearted,  and  had  not  given  way  to  everything 
that  moved  his  pity.  What  had  he  to  offer  now  to  him  and 
his  family,  turned  houseless  on  the  world  without  a  cent  ahead? 
Nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  but  a  roof  to  shelter  them.  The 


216  PHOEBE  GILMORE'S  KEMORSE. 

little  tumble-down  cottage  which  stood  by  his  blacksmith-shop 
was  so  out  of  repair  he  could  not  fancy  Phoebe  living  in  it 
without  a  sinking  of  the  heart.  lie  had  lived  in  it  till  he  had 
got  used  to  its  leaks,  and  cracks,  and  unsteady  floors ;  when  the 
wall  fell  down  in  one  room,  he  shut  it  up  and  went  into  another  ; 
when  the  rain  found  its  way  through  one  corner,  he  moved  his 
bed  into  another,  and  so  time  had  gone  on  crumbling  his  house 
before  his  eyes  for  years,  and  he  had  not  heeded  its  encroach 
ments  on  his  comfort ;  but  when  it  came  before  his  mind  as  a 
home  for  those  he  loved,  it  seemed  indeed  a  ruin  to  him.  He 
lost  no  time  in  planning  its  renovation  ;  before  spring  it  must  be 
fit  to  live  in,  and  that  by  the  work  of  his  own  hands,  for  there 
was  no  ready  money  to  lay  out  upon  it. 

He  had  come  down  to-night  to  propose  to  Richard  to  go  up 
to-morrow,  and  with  him  begin  to  work  upon  it,  and  so  on 
through  the  winter  whenever  they  had  a  spare  day ;  in  that 
way  neither  need  lose  time  nor  money,  reasoned  the  unworldly 
brother.  Poor  old  fellow,  he  felt  himself  a  great  unwieldy  wall 
about  which  these  helpless  ones  could  only  cling  and  climb,  and 
find  a  miserable  support  by  their  own  tenacity  ;  he  could  do 
nothing  for  them  but  stand  silent  in  his  clumsy  pity.  Phoebe's 
perverse  course  sometimes  tried  him  very  much,  but  he  could 
not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  say  anything  to  her,  now  they  were  in 
such  trouble — and  trouble  of  her  own  making,  too.  When  they 
were  all  together  under  one  roof,  he  thought  perhaps  he  might 
persuade  her  by  his  daily  kindness  to  give  up  these  thoughts  of 
malice,  and  .to  try  the  easier  yoke  and  the  lighter  burden  of 
Christian  charity.  • 

He  longed  to  see  Richard  taking  the  true  view  of  his  misfor 
tunes,  and  getting  up  like  a  man  to  meet  them,  and  calling  them 
by  their  right  name.  Phoebe's  influence  upon  him  was  bad  ; 
it  always  had  been,  his  brother  thought,  though  people  said 
Phoebe  had  been  the  making  of  him,  and  had  kept  him  up  to 
what  he  was.  Her  ambition  indeed  had  been  the  stimulant 


PHCEBE  GILMOEE'S  REMORSE.  217 

tbat  had  made  his  life  outwardly  more  prosperous  than  his 
brother's,  and  inwardly  less  true  and  Christian.  He  was  almost 
a  Christian ;  he  was  very  near  the  kingdom  of  God  by  nature, 
but  he  j nst  missed  it  by  a  hair's  breadth.  He  was  not  strong 
enough  to  put  aside  the  daily  promptings  of  the  woman  who 
had  been  the  love  of  his  youth,  and  was  the  companion  of  his 
life.  She  called  herself  a  Christian ;  well,  that  was  not  what 
he  called  Christianity  exactly,  and  he  had  not  the  wisdom  to 
discriminate  between  the  pure  standard  he  had  within  and  the 
imperfect  life  brought  before  his  daily  view,  and  so  Phoebe  had 
been  doing  him  evil  and  not  good  all  the  days  of  her  life  ;  while 
she  thought,  and  the  world  said,  she  was  the  best  one  of  the 
two,  and  to  her  alone  was  owing  all  the  prosperity  that  had 
ever  fallen  to  their  lot.  She  did  not  feel  as  ready  to  embrace 
the  credit  of  their  present  state  of  trouble,  though  the  world 
did  not  hesitate  to  put  a  large  share  of  it,  too,  upon  her 
shoulders. 

She  was  so  unreasonable  and  bitter  whenever  any  mention 
of  their  future  plans  was  attempted,  that  it  was  tacitly  under 
stood  between  the  two  men  that  no  allusions  to  them  should 
be  made  in  her  presence ;  so,  when  anything  was  to  be  dis 
cussed,  Richard  followed  his  brother  slowly  out  into  the  path, 
and  the  two  generally  stood  for  an  hour  or  so  beside  the  gate, 
planning  for  her  comfort  and  the  boy's,  and  for  hard  work 
and  self-denial  for  themselves.  When  Old  Hundred  rose  up 
that  night  out  of  his  chair,  he  seemed  to  threaten  the  ceiling, 
but  he  stopped  just  short  of  it,  happily,  when  he  was  erect,  and 
took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  with  a  look  towards  Richard 
that  the  latter  understood. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  light,  Phoebe,"  he  said,  approaching 
the  table,  "  and  I'll  take  myself  and  my  pipe  out  of  your  clean 
kitchen  before  we  get  a-going  ?" 

"You  needn't  be  so  careful  of  it,"  she  said,  tartly,  holding 
the  candle  towards  him.  "  I  don't  take  any  trouble  to  keep  it 

10 


218  PHCEBE  GILMORE'S  REMORSE. 

clean  nowadays :  I'll  take  pains  to  leave  it  smoked  and  black 
and  dirty  as  I  can  for  your  fine  lady's  tenant  in  the  spring.  It 
would  do  my  heart  good  to  see  it  burned  down  to  the  ground 
before  it  brought  her  in  a  cent  of  rent ;  it's  sure  to  do  her  some 
kind  of  mischief,  take  my  word  for  it." 

"You  make  a  mistake,  Phoebe;  you  make  a  mistake,"  he 
said,  taking  up  his  hat,  and  going  slowly  to  the  door,  followed 
by  his  brother.  "  I  don't  say  it  to  hurt  you,  but  I  wish  you 
could  feel  different.  It  would  make  you  easier,  depend  upon 
it;  it  would  make  you  easier." 

And  with  that  mild  reproof  he  left  her. 

For  a  long  time  Richard  and  he  stood  by  the  gate  in  the 
darkness,  smoking  and  talking  at  intervals  of  what  lay  heavy 
at  the  hearts  of  both.  At  last  they  parted  with  an  agreement 
to  meet  in  the  morning  early  at  the  cross-roads,  Richard  with 
his  horse  and  cart,  and  both  with  their  shovels,  to  draw  some 
sand  for  the  mason-work  about  the  old  house,  upon  which  they 
must  begin  next  week. 

In  the  morning,  after  the  silent  breakfast  (breakfast  was 
always  silent  now),  Richard  put  the  horse  before  the  strong, 
new  cart  that  must  be  sold  with  the  other  fixtures  in  the 
spring,  to  pay  off  what  there  was  no  chance  of  his  being  able 
to  pay  otherwise.  He  came  into  the  kitchen,  which  was  rather 
dark  and  gloomy,  the  sun  not  being  fairly  above  the  horizon, 
and  got  his  pipe  and  paper  of  tobacco,  and  fumbled  about  the 
cupboard  for  something  which  he  could  not  find,  and  which, 
in  fact,  he  did  not  want  so  much  as  a  cheery  word  from  his 
wife,  who,  busy  about  the  table,  turned  her  back  upon  him, 
and  did  not  offer  a  word  to  him  of  any  kind. 

She  knew  where  he  was  going,  and  what  his  business  for  the 
day  was — but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  speak  of  it  with 
any  degree  of  moderation.  The  change  was  too  bitter  for  her 
pride,  and  she  could  not  be  brought  to  feel  gratitude  for  the 
shelter  of  her  brother-in-law's  roof.  Richard  felt  sore  at  heart 


PIICEBE  GILMORE'S  KEMOKSE.  219 

about  beginning  the  work  without  a  word  of  encouragement 
from  her.  There  was  absolutely  nothing  else  before  them  if 
they  turned  with  contempt  from  this,  and  he  must  go  forward 
in  it  with  her  consent  or  without  it — but  without  her  sanction 
and  advice  he  never  had  done  anything  before,  and  it  came 
heavy  to  him  at  just  this  time.  She  had  forbidden  him  ever 
to  speak  to  her  about  it,  when  first  it  had  been  mentioned,  and 
so,  though  he  lingered  in  the  kitchen  for  some  moments,  he  did 
not  dare  to  bring  the  subject  up.  She  knew  what  he  was 
waiting  for,  and  there  was  a  storm  within  as  she  busied  herself 
silently  about  the  breakfast,  turning  away  from  him. 

At  last  he  went  out  without  a  word,  with  a  slow  and  heavy 
step.  As  soon  as  she  heard  the  wheels  turning  on  the  gravel, 
she  half-relented,  and  went  quickly  to  the  door.  Twice  she 
raised  her  voice  to  speak,  and  twice  the  wicked  spirit  caught 
back  the  words,  and  stubbornly  and  in  silence  she  watched  him 
walk  away  beside  the  cart  out  into  the  dim  and  foggy  road  with 
bent  head  and  dull,  slow  step. 

She  felt  a  weight  of  lead  upon  her  heart  as  she  went  back  to 
her  work ;  a  weight  that  grew  heavier  and  heavier  as  the  day 
went  on.  She  found  herself  harsh  and  sharp  with  Harry,  but 
that  was  no  unusual  thing  now ;  she  felt  she  had  a  right  to  pay 
back  even  on  him  some  of  the  evil  coin  that  fate  had  foisted 
on  her. 

The  morning  passed  slowly  away,  though  she  worked  hard, 
and,  with  an  unacknowledged  compunction,  tried  to  revoke  her 
evil  resolution  of  the  day  before.  She  scrubbed  and  scoured 
the  kitchen  till  it  looked  cleaner  and  fresher  than  it  had  done 
for  many  weeks ;  then  with  a  softness  of  heart  she  'did  not 
admit  even  to  herself,  she  arranged  the  dinner  with  express 
reference  to  the  taste  and  pleasure  of  her  husband.  This  was 
a  soothing  sort  of  occupation  to  her;  she  lingered  on  it  with 
some  satisfaction,  and  though  she  knew  from  old  experience  the 
moment  his  foot  sounded  on  the  threshold,  the  stubborn  cold- 


220  PHOEBE  GILMOKE'S  KEMOESE. 

ness  would  come  back,  it  still  allayed  her  unspoken  remorse 
somewhat  to  feel  she  was  providing  for  his  comfort. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck ;  then  half-past,  and  still  he  did  not 
come.  Harry  came  in,  and  was  very  much  out  of  temper  at 
being  kept  waiting  for  his  dinner ;  his  mother  was  harsh  with 
him,  and  sent  him  out  again  very  angry.  The  room  was  all  in 
order ;  the  table  was  laid ;  the  dinner  was  steaming  hot  before 
the  fire ;  Phoebe  had  nothing  to  do  whatever  ;  and  too  tired 
and  spiritless  to  be  impatient,  she  sat  down  by  the  window  to 
await  her  husband's  coming. 

Not  till  it  was  some  time  past  one,  did  she  experience  abso 
lute  anxiety.  Then  she  got  up  and  walked  to  the  door,  then 
down  the  path,  looking  up  and  down  the  road.  There  was  no  one 
in  sight,  and  she  came  back,  feeling  a  little  irritated.  Perhaps 
he  had  not  meant  to  come  home  to  dinner,  or  had  agreed  to 
take  his  dinner  with  his  brother,  and  had  not  told  her,  in 
return  for  her  obstinate  silence  about  his  going.  But  no ; 
that  was  not  Richard  ;  he  could  not  have  done  a  thing  to  vex 
her,  whatever  provocation  he  might  have ;  neither  could  he 
have  forgotten.  He  was  considerate  and  careful  of  giving 
trouble,  but  she  was  so  used  to  his  slow,  steady  thoughtfnlness, 
that  she  seldom  reflected  on  her  happiness  in  being  married  to 
a  man  who  was  neither  selfish,  nor  surly,  nor  tyrannical,  but 
who  had  put  her  will  voluntarily  in  place  of  his  own. 

She  softened  a  little  while  she  thought  of  this — a  rare 
thought  with  her — and  went  over  to  the  door  again  and 

O  O 

listened.  Presently  she  heard  the  lumbering  of  a  cart  along 
the  road,  and,  presto !  all  the  softness  went.  She  glanced  up 
at  the  clock,  and  felt  she  had  good  reason  to  be  angry  at  having 
had  her  work  put  back  an  hour  and  more  ;  she  felt  sharp  and 
stubborn  as  she  set  the  meat  upon  the  table  and  stooped  over 
the  kettle  in  which  the  potatoes  lay  white  and  mealy,  over 
done  and  ready  to  fall  to  pieces  at  the  first  touch  of  the  ladle. 
She  had  some  tart  words  ready  on  her  lips  to  greet  her  tardy 


PHOEBE  GILMOBE'S  REMORSE.  221 

husband's  entrance  with,  but  several  minutes  passed,  and  he  did 
not  come.  She  went  to  the  door.  There  the  cart  stood  at  the 
gate,  the  horse  docile  and  comfortable,  pulling  at  a  tuft  of 
grass  beside  it.  The  cart  was  half-full  of  sand,  but  the  ''back 
board  was  down,  and  the  sand  had  been  jolting  out  all  along 
the  road.  With  a  sharp  misgiving,  Phoebe  ran  down  the 
path  and  looked  in  both  directions.  There  was  no  one  coming; 
there  was  nothing  unusual  in  sight  but  a  trail  of  the  white  sand 
lying  all  along  the  road  as  far  as  she  could  see.  The  sun  had 
come  out  and  was  shining  brightly,  but  the  road  was  damp  and 
muddy  with  the  early  morning  showers.  The  reins  lay  on  the 
ground,  covered  with  mud  and  sand,  through  which  they  had 
been  dragging.  What  did  this  mean  ? 

Phoebe's  hands  shook  as  she  fastened  them  to  the  post  beside 
the  gate,  and  running  into  the  house  caught  up  her  bonnet, 
called  to  Harry,  but  did  not  wait  to  hear  his  answer,  and 
started  down  the  road.  She  was  very  tired  with  her  morning's 
work,  and  the  agitation  and  alarm  had  made  her  knees  so 
weak  and  trembling,  that  she  had  more  than  once  to  sit  down 
by  the  roadside  to  recover  strength.  She  tried  to  persuade 
herself  there  was  nothing  to  alarm  her  in  the  horse's  coming 
home  ;  he  had  got  unfastened  and  started  off  while  Richard 
was  busy  about  something  else ;  but  still  she  hurried  on  with 
an  apprehension  of  misfortune. 

It  was  a  long  way  to  the  bank  where  the  men  had  started 
to  draw  sand,  a  full  mile  and  a  half,  and  the  road  lay  out  of 
town,  and  was  lonely  and  unfrequented.  Phoebe  felt  as  if  she 
were  in  a  nightmare — she  realized  the  distance  so,  and  the  pos 
sible  misfortune,  and  the  hurry  and  the  weakness  of  her  limbs. 
She  seemed  to  be  smothering,  and  she  took  off  her  sun-bonnet 
and  fanned  herself  with  it  as  she  hurried  forward.  Sometimes  she 
ran  for  a  few  steps,  and  then  she  had  to  stop  and  lean  against 
a  tree  or  fence  to  get  her  breath  and  ease  the  leaping  of  her 
heart.  She  could  follow  the  trail  of  sand  a  long  way  ahead. 


222  PHCEBE  GILMORE'S  KEMORSE. 

Such  a  long  way !  She  felt  as  if  it  would  have  been  easier  if 
she  had  not  seen  such  a  length  of  road  stretching  ahead  of  her 
over  which  she  had  to  go,  before  she  got  rid  of  this  awful  sus 
picion,,  the  very  presence  of  which  in  her  mind,  though  nothing 
but  a  suspicion  and  with  almost  no  foundation,  seemed  enough 
to  drive  her  mad. 

There  was  a  turn  in  the  road  just  this  side  of  the  embank 
ment  ;  a  clump  of  cedar-trees  jutted  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
highway  from  the  bank  above,  and  shut  out  all  that  was  beyond. 
When  she  reached  it  she  paused  a  moment  and  pressed  both 
hands  against  her  heart.  She  should  see  Richard  as  she 
turned  the  corner  if  he  were  there  and  well,  and  she  felt  even 
then  a  faint  struggle  of  pride  in  betraying  her  excitement ;  a 
very  faint  struggle,  though,  that  was  lost  in  her  anxiety  ;  and 
hardly  breathing  from  the  intensity  of  her  feeling,  she  went 
forward  a  few  steps,  turned  the  corner,  and  looked  towards 
the  quarter  of  the  bank  where  the  excavations  had  been  made. 

It  was  about  two  hundred  yards  from  where  she  stood ; 
many  people,  men  and  women,  stood  about  it,  with  strangely 
expressive  faces ;  the  sound  of  shovels  and  picks  was  almost 
all  that  was  heard,  except  the  occasional  low  voices  of  the 
crowd,  and  the  quick,  sharp  word  of  command  and  inquiry 
from  those  out  of  sight  behind  the  bank.  There  was  a  great 
fresh  mass  of  sand  upon  the  ground  below  ;  and  above,  a  freshly 
broken,  uneven,  ragged  edge  standing  out,  with  grass-roots 
dangling  down,  and  pebbles  and  sand  still  rattling  occasionally 
from  it.  Phoebe  knew  all  at  that  first  glance  as  well  as  if  she 
had  been  there  an  hour  ago  when  that  last  fatal  spade-thrust 
loosened  the  tiny  atoms  that  had  so  long  been  impending. 
She  felt  the  horrid  shock,  the  sudden  blow,  the  instantaneous 
darkness,  the  smothering,  paralysing  weight,  the  cry  of  agony, 
muffled  and  unavailing. 

It  was  very  wonderful  that  she  did  not  faint  and  fall.  She 
walked  straight  on  towards  the  group,  and  stopped  when  in 


PHCEBE  GILMORE'S  KEMOKSE.  223 

full  view  of  those  at  work.  Some  one  caught  sight  of  her,  and 
the  crowd  turned  towards  her.  A  murmur  of  pity  and  regret 
broke  from  them  ;  the  poor  thing,  they  cried,  while  some  of 
the  women  ran  towards  her,  and  some  of  them  shrank  away. 
They  surrounded  her,  but  she  pushed  them  off  and  tried  to 
make  her  way  up  to  the  bank. 

"  Keep  her  back,"  cried  one  of  the  foremost  men,  in  a 
voice  harsh  and  hoarse  with  feeling  ;  and  the  women  drew  her 
back  and  forced  her  to  stand  quietly  in  their  midst.  She  was 
too  weak  to  resist,  and  she  stood  supported  by  the  arms  of  two 
or  three  of  them  in  full  sight  of  the  desperate  workers.  Her 
face  was  grey  and  drawn  into  strong,  sharpened  lines ;  her  eyes 
were  fixed  and  staring.  It  was  a  scene  of  intense  and  painful 
interest ;  none  the  less  striking  and  terrible  that  the  sleeping 
fields  and  bright  autumn  woods  beyond  were  lying  under  a 
brilliant  sky,  and  that  a  glorious  flood  of  sunshine  was  bathing 
the  whole  place.  The  contrast  of  this  outward  quiet  and  the 
horrible  knowledge  possessed  by  every  mind,  was  most  affecting; 
the  dreadful  struggle  for  life,  the  death-pangs  of  two  strong 
men,  the  living  anguish  of  those  from  whom  they  were  torn 
away,  made  the  sunshine  a  most  painful  sight — a  sight  that 
added  to  the  picture  its  most  vivid  touches. 

The  men  worked  with  resolve  and  desperation ;  the  sweat 
poured  from  their  set  and  frowning  faces  ;  the  great  cords  stood 
out  on  their  bared  arms ;  there  was  no  word  spoken  between 
them,  as  one  relieved  the  other  and  stood  by  for  a  few  moments 
to  recover  strength.  A  boy  held  a  bucket  of  water  and  silently 
dipped  cupful  after  cupful  to  those  who  fell  back  exhausted 
to  give  place  to  fresher  hands.  There  were  more  men  than 
spades,  and  more  spades  than  could  be  used  upon  the  space 
denoted  by  the  freshly-opened  sand,  so  that  many  had  to  stand 
and  watch  while  the  few  worked  and  the  fewer  still  directed. 
There  were  children  staring  with  frightened  looks,  women 
crying  and  wringing  their  hands,  and  a  few  standing  about  the 


224  PHOEBE  GILMORE'S  REMORSE. 

poor  wife  with  silent  faces  of  compassion.  The  click  of  the 
spades,  the  fall  of  the  soft  sand,  was  painfully  distinct  through 
the  occasional  whisper  of  the  women  and  ejaculations  of  the 
men.  At  last  there  was  a  smothered  exclamation  from  the 
foremost  worker ;  a  pause  of  a  single  second,  then  a  plunge  of 
all  the  spades  into  the  yielding  sand,  a  silence  that  seemed 
to  choke  the  breath,  a  low  murmur  of  some  feeling  that  she 
could  not  understand,  as  she  saw  them  throw  away  their  spades 
and  bend  down  anxiously.  The  crowd  pressed  nearer,  the  men 
cried  harshly  to  them  to  keep  back  ;  the  boy's  bucket  of  water 
was  in  demand  ;  the  foremost  ordered  the  outside  ones  to  move 
back  and  give  them  air ;  the  crowd  hardly  breathed  with  the 
intensity  of  their  excitement. 

At  last  the  men  in  front  rose  up  and  shook  their  heads,  and 
sorrowfully  took  up  their  spades  again. 

All  this  while  Phoebe  had  been  struggling  with  her  keepers ; 
at  last  she  burst  from  them  and  pressed  forward  through  a 
crowd  that  could  not  but  give  way  at  sight  of  her,  up  to  where 
the  body  lay.  It  was  not  Richard,  it  was  his  brother  ;  she  did 
riot  glance  again  at  him,  but  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  bank  where 
the  men  were  hard  at  work,  though  with  less  heart,  alas,  this 
time. 

Meanwhile  the  women  and  some  of  the  men  gathered  round 
the  lifeless  body,  unwilling  yet  to  give  him  up.  But  the  noble 
fellow  lay  face  upwards  to  the  sunshine  with  such  a  placid  look 
of  satisfaction  and  security,  it  seemed  to  mock  their  efforts.  It 
is  no  use,  they  said  at  last  and  then  drew  back  and  gazed  at 
him  reverently.  Not  a  bruise  or  wound  about  him,  only  a  little 
sand  among  his  grizzled  hair  and  on  his  working  clothes.  A 
manly  figure,  grand  in  its  proportions ;  an  honest  face,  noble  in 
its  repose.  There  was  no  mark  of  death  about  him  ;  his  flesh 
was  warm,  his  limbs  fell  supple  and  easy  as  in  life — only — only 
his  heart  was  still,  his  pulse  was  gone.  The  sunshine  fell  full 
upon  him  and  on  the  awe-struck  groups  about  him  ;  his  face 


PHOEBE  GILMORE'S  REMOKSE.  225 

was  still  and  happy  as  if  all  the  goodness  and  kindness  of  his 
life  were  passing  in  dreams  before  him — their  faces  were  pale 
and  ghastly  at  the  thought  of  the  death  that  seemed  to  have  left 
no  shadow  upon  him  who  had  passed  through  it. 

At  last  there  came  another  pause  among  the  workers  ;  with 
careful  hands  they  dragged  out  his  unfortunate  companion  and 
placed  him  beside  him  on  the  grass.  With  a  piercing  cry 
that  rang  for  days  in  the  ears  of  those  that  heard  it,  Phoebe 
flung  herself  upon  her  husband's  lifeless  body.  The  women 
shuddered  and  hid  their  faces ;  the  men  walked  away  and  tried 
not  to  hear  the  agony  that  rent  their  hearts  with  pity. 

Poor  little  Harry!  What  had  he  done  to  deserve  his  fate? 
Everything  seemed  against  him.  That  day  and  that  night  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  frozen,  and  were  only  half-awake  after  a 
dreadful  dream.  He  was  afraid  of  his  dead  father ;  he  was 
afraid  of  his  wild-eyed  mother ;  he  was  afraid  of  the  solemn- 
faced  neighbors ;  he  was  afraid  of  his  own  self.  He  was  too 
old  to  run  to  his  mother  to  be  comforted,  or  to  receive  pity 
from  any  one  about  him.  He  was  too  young  to  throw  off  his 
grief  and  rush  into  excitement  to  get  rid  of  it.  He  did  not 
understand  it ;  he  was  horror-stricken.  The  goodness  and  tender 
ness  of  his  heart  were  petrified  ;  he  turned  coldly  away  from  his 
mother's  passionate  embrace,  and  repaid  with  stubborn  silence 
the  kindness  of  the  neighbors.  A  heartless  boy,  an  ungrateful 
son,  they  said ;  and  that  awful  calamity  was  a  long  step  down 
in  Harry's  downward  course. 

And  Phcebc,  wild  with  remorse  and  grief,  melting  with  a  ten 
derness  that  came  too  late ;  widowed  in  heart ;  hopeless,  as  far 
as  this  world  went — was  it,  too,  a  step  downward  for  her  ? 
Alas  !  yes.  She  had  cut  herself  off  from  all  those  with  whom  her 
early  religious  life  had  been  associated ;  sho  had  made  it  im 
possible  for  any  of  them  to  approach  her  except  her  old  pastor, 
whom  the  hand  of  disease  alone  kept  back  from  her.  The  bet 
ter  feelings  of  her  heart  could  only  have  been  reached  by  him, 

10* 


226  PHCEBE  GILMORE'S  REMOKSE. 

but  to  him  she  would  not  go,  and  he  could  not  come  to  her. 
The  house  was  full  of  preachers  and  exhorters — the  leaders  of 
her  new  faith — people  with  hearts  full  of  goodness,  with  eyes 
brimming  with  pity,  with  lips  running  over  with  piety.  But  it 
all  seemed  cant  to  her,  used  to  so  different  a  religious  school. 
It  was  all  associated  with  her  perversity  and  error.  She  felt 
her  heart  revolting  from  them,  and  they  did  her  little  good. 
Her  agony  was  intense ;  her  nature  was  wholly  beyond  their 
experience  and  comprehension.  In  her  first  moments  of  dis 
tracted  grief,  she  had  felt  she  could  "  curse  God  and  die  " — 
curse  religion,  curse  all  that  she  had  sinned  about,  all  that  had 
failed  her  in  her  hour  of  need. 

People  told  her  she  had  been  a  good  wife,  and  asked  her  to 
take  comfort  in  that;  and  she  thought  of  the  honest  love  she 
had  undervalued,  the  strong  influence  she  had  abused,  and  she 
wished  that  she  were  lying  dead  beside  him  to  whom  she  had  all 
her  life  been  doing  evil.  They  called  upon  her  to  repose  her  faith 
on  the  Maker  whom  she  had  always  served,  and  she  thought  with 
bitterness  of  the  false  service  she  had  rendered  and  the  cruel 
wages  with  which  she  was  being  paid.  They  told  her  to  trust 
in  her  Saviour,  when  her  Saviour  was  but  a  name  to  her.  She 
did  not  know  His  heart ;  she  had  never  felt  His  love ;  there 
was  nothing  to  trust  in  there.  They  exhorted  her  to  repent 
and  confess  her  sins,  and  she  felt  that  she  could  hurl  the  coun 
sel  back  into  the  very  face  of  Heaven  and  cast  herself  down  and 
die.  She  had  received  at  the  Lord's  hand  double  for  all  her 
sins ;  and  when  she  rose  up  from  the  days  of  her  bitter  mourn 
ing,  it  was  with  a  heart  of  adamant,  sinews  and  nerves  of  steel. 


THE  ORDEAL.  227 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

THE  ORDEAL. 

"God — satisfied  and  Earth — undone." 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 

DR.  CATHERWOOD  had  told  the  truth  about  Julian's  illness  that 
night.  It  was  not  serious  ;  it  was  only  of  a  few  days'  duration ; 
and  though  it  had  its  usual  effect  of  making  Christine  look  pale 
and  keeping  Dr.  Catherwood  there  through  one  night,  and 
bringing  him  to  the  house  several  times  a  day  for  the  succeed 
ing  week,  it  did  not  leave  any  important  results  behind  it. 
His  attacks  were  gradually  lessening  in  their  violence  and  fre 
quency  as  he  grew  older,  and  Dr.  Catherwood,  who  never 
looked  upon  his  health  as  anything  but  of  the  most  precarious 
nature,  was  beginning  to  speak  and  feel  more  encouragingly 
about  him.  It  was  possible  he  might  yet  be  a  strong  man,  he 
said ;  though  looking  at  the  slight,  pale,  undersized  boy,  it  was 
difficult  to  see  where  he  grounded  his  possibility. 

After  Julian's  illness  was  passed,  there  had  come  a  gap  in 
Dr.  Catherwood's  visiting  at  the  Parsonage;  then  Dr.  Upham 
had  been  ill  again,  and  he  had  been  sent  for,  and  now  was 
coming  every  day,  at  the  Doctor's  earnest  and  specified  request. 
Immediately  upon  Mr.  Brockhulst's  resignation,  there  had  been 
an  urgent  and  affectionate  appeal  to  him  to  resume  the  charge 
of  St.  Philip's.  It  was  pretty  generally  felt  in  the  congregation 
that  they  had  had  enough  of  the  new  regime,  and  that  a  return 
to  the  old  ways  would  be  very  acceptable  to  all.  The  conser 
vative,  substantial  men,  who  had  stood  aside  during  the  ascen- 


228  THE    ORDEAL. 

dency  of  the  Sherman  faction,  now  came  forward,  and  the  reins 
of  government  were  very  gladly  put  back  into  their  hands. 

Dr.  TJpham  consented  to  resume  his  duties  if  his  health  should 
permit ;  but  the  fatigue  consequent  upon  the  first  Sunday's 
labors  proved  that  it  was  certainly  not  equal  to  it.  He  still 
hoped  to  be  able  to  preach  once  a  day,  however,  aided  by  a 
clergyman  temporarily  called  in  as  an  assistant.  The  repose 
that  was  felt  throughout  the  church  at  this  state  of  things  must 
have  been  most  flattering  to  Dr.  TJpham  ;  his  people  seemed  to 
think  it  impossible  to  do  too  much  to  make  amends  for  their 
former  error  ;  and  all  his  firmness  and  discretion  were  required 
to  keep  things  from  sliding  back  into  their  former  places  without 
too  vigorous  a  bound,  and  thereby  reflecting  too  strongly  on  his 
predecessor's  course.  The  music,  for  instance,  under  the  Rec 
tor's  strict  injunction,  continued  in  the  same  hands  as  before. 
The  fine  organist,  who  was  a  terrible  expense,  having  been 
engaged  till  spring,  was  still  retained,  and  the  class  of  boys  was 
placed  under  the  care  of  a  sober-minded  young  student  of 
divinity,  without  half  Mr.  Brockhulst's  talents,  but  with  a  very 
good  and  plodding  mind  that  suited  exactly  the  vocation. 

So  the  weeks  went  on,  and  the  time  for  Christine's  promised 
visit  to  town  was  come.  She  had  received  several  rather 
flighty  letters  from  Madeline,  full  of  contradictions,  extravagances, 
and  sarcasms,  and  they  only  increased  her  dread  of  the  ordeal. 
Madeline  described  the  life  they  led  as  very  gay,  an  exaggera 
tion  of  all  the  doings  at  the  Hill — some  excitement  every 
evening,  dinner-party,  opera,  or  theatre ;  and  what  would  it  be 
after  the  season  had  begun  ?  Colonel  Stecle  was  a  great  deal  at 
the  house,  'besides  all  the  others  who  were  in  the  habit  of 
coming  to  the  Hill. 

"  Many  inquiries  after  you,  my  dear ;  I'm  afraid  they'll  turn 
your  head  with  compliments  when  you  come  down." 

Christine  had  done  everything  she  could  to  escape  the 
chance  of  having  her  head  turned ;  but  Dr.  Uphain,  fancying 


THE    ORDEAL.  229 

that  her  reluctance  came  from  leaving  him  alone,  insisted  with 
unusual  warmth  upon  the  plan,  and  she  had  no  sufficient  excuse 
to  offer  for  refusing  to  keep  the  promise  that  he  had  made  for 
her. 

It  was  a  soft,  hazy  November  afternoon  ;  the  sky  was  a  faint 
grey,  the  air  was  mild,  the  wind  was  still.  Christine  left 
Crcscens  still  busy  with  her  trunk  for  the  journey  of  to-rnorrow, 
and  throwing  her  cloak  around  her,  went  out  for  a  half-hour  of 
quiet  in  the  garden.  She  went  slowly  down  the  long  covered 
walk,  now  strewed  thickly  with  the  dead  leaves  which  rustled 
as  she  moved  along ;  the  vines  above  were  almost  bare  of 
foliage,  but  a  few  bunches  of  grapes  still  hanging  on  them 
scented  the  air  deliciously.  The  grass-plat  looked  sere  and 
yellow,  the  shrubbery  was  nearly  leafless,  the  flower-beds  were 
tangled  and  overgrown,  and  covered  with  dead  leaves ;  by  the 
path  some  artemisias  and  other  late  flowers  bloomed,  but  the 
end  of  the  year's  luxuriance  and  verdure  was  stamped  upon 
the  garden  ;  the  soft,  mild  atmosphere  could  not  deceive. 

Christine  sighed  as  she  thought  of  the  departed  summer  and 
its  many  pleasures.  She  felt  as  if  it  had  been  all  the  youth 
that  she  should  ever  know  ;  with  its  close  had  come  a  know 
ledge,  an  awakening,  that  matured  her  in  an  instant. 

"  Duty  must  be  life's  leading  star, 
And  conscious  innocence  its  rest." 

She  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  long  walk  beside  the  drooping 
tree,  with  the  circular  bench  around  its  trunk,  that  in  the  early 
summer  had  been  such  a  thick  and  cool  green  bower,  now  naked 
and  leafless  and  dreary,  and  a  verse  of  Keble's  came  mourn 
fully  across  her  mind : 

"And  if  the  world  seem  dull  and  dry ; 
If  long  and  sad  thy  lonely  hours, 
And  winds  have  rent  thy  sheltering  bowers — 
Bethink  thee  what  thou  art  and  where 
A  sinner  in  a  life  of  care." 


230  THE    ORDEAL. 

She  stood  with  her  hand  upon  the  branch  nearest  to  her,  and 
looked  into  the  leafless  bower  with  a  sad  remembrance  of  the 
happy  hours  that  she  had  spent  dreaming  in  it  when  the  sum 
mer  was  yet  young.  Some  one  else  was  thinking  of  that  time, 
too.  Dr.  Catherwood,  coming  down  that  moment  from  her 
father's  room,  paused  at  the  open  door  and  looked  out  into  the 
garden  with  a  thoughtful,  almost  a  stern  face,  that  softened  and 
then  darkened  again  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  figure  at  the  end 
of  the  long  walk.  He  thought  of  that  "  all  golden  afternoon  " 
when  he  had  smoked  his  fragrant  indolent  cigar  under  the 
shade  of  the  now  leafless  tree,  reading  "  Evangeline,"  with  the 
mignonette  between  its  pages,  and  thinking  of  the  lovely  child 
who  presently,  like  a  dream,  had  come  fluttering  down  the 
path  to  him.  He  thought  of  her  girlish  eagerness,  with  her 
first  note  of  invitation  open  in  her  hand — of  the  simplicity  he 
smiled  at  then,  the  misgivings  that  seemed  prophetic  now.  He 
had  felt  that  note  was  the  first  step  in  the  separation  that 
must  surely  come  between  them.  It  had  given  him  the  first 
warning  that  his  pleasant  intercourse  with  her  must  some  time 
end — that  the  too  charming  and  unconventional  hours  he 
passed  at  the  Parsonage  were  numbered.  All  this  had  been 
fulfilled.  The  summer  had  brought  all  the  changes  in  their 
relative  positions  that  he  feared.  But  in  one  thing  he  had  been 
mistaken.  In  one  thing  Christine  had  been  wiser  than  he. 
The  world  had  not  hurt  her.  Flattery  had  not  touched  her 
heart.  She  had  ripened  rapidly ;  she  was  a  woman  now,  where 
five  months  ago  she  had  been  but  a  child.  Life  had  matured 
her,  but  had  not  changed  her  nature.  His  pretty  violet 
breathed  still  the  same  sweet  woody  perfume  as  when  the  moss 
imbedded  it  and  the  budding  forest4rees  hung  their  fresh  shade 
above  it. 

He  looked  down  the  walk  and  started  forward  as  if  he  must 
yield  to  the  impulse  to  go  to  her,  then  checked  himself  and 
half-turned  away.  What  a  contrast  was  this  to  the  face  and 


THE    ORDEAL.  231 

figure  that  he  remembered  so  well  in  that  early  summer  sunset ! 
As  great  a  contrast  as  between  that  day  of  rosy,  living  June, 
and  this  of  dead,  grey,  still  November.  The  change  had  not 
come  unperceived  to  him.  He  had  watched  the  shadow  steal 
ing  into  her  eyes,  the  color  fading  from  her  cheek,  but  it 
seemed  to  come  more  fully  to  him  now  in  its  entirety  as  she 
stood  silent  and  motionless  where  then  she.  had  stood  trembling 
with  young  life  and  happiness. 

He  turned  back  into  the  house  and  crossed  the  hall.  She 
was  going  to-morrow.  When  she  came  back  she  might  be  even 
further  from  him  than  she  was  now ;  he  would  go  and  speak  to 
her  one  moment :  perhaps  he  would  say  to  her  what  her  father 
had  asked  him  to  say — discover  from  her  if  she  looked  favor 
ably  upon  this  suitor  who  seemed  to  have  distanced  all  the 
others  and  to  have  won  for  himself  some  sort  of  a  place  with  her. 
So  he  turned  back  towards  the  garden — it  was  not  often  that 
he  wavered  so — went  down  the  steps  into  the  path,  and  ap 
proached  her  slowly. 

She  did  not  hear  till  the  leaves  at  her  feet  rustled,  and 
turning,  she  saw  him  standing  by  her.  She  changed  color 
slightly  as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  So  you  are  going  away  to-morrow,"  he  said,  resting  his  hand 
upon  the  rough  heavy  stem  of  the  vine  above  him.  "I  thought 
Mrs.  Sherman  would  get  you  after  all." 

She  merely  smiled  faintly ;  a  month  ago  she  would  have  told 
him  she  did  not  want  to  go,  but  that  her  father  had  insisted. 
Times  of  confidence  were  over  now. 

"  Miss  Madeline  has  seduced  you  with  her  accounts  of  the 
gay  doings,  I  suppose,"  he  went  on. 

"  Madeline  seems  to  be  enjoying  herself  very  much,"  Christine 
answered,  and  then  turned  towards  the  house.  He  walked  down 
the  path  beside  her,  and  as  they  neared  the  steps,  he  said — 

"  Do  not  go  in  yet.  Let  us  walk  here  awhile ;  it  is  gloomy 
in  the  house." 


232  THE    OKDEAL. 

"  It  is  gloomy  here,  I  think,"  she  said,  as  in  turning  to  re 
trace  their  steps,  her  eyes  wandered  over  the  desolate  garden 
and  fell  upon  the  naked  leafless  bower.  Tears  involuntarily 
rushed  into  them  as  she  thought  of  the  summer's  past  delights, 
the  coming  separation,  the  abiding  grief. 

"  You  are  too  young  to  find  autumn  gloomy,"  said  her  com 
panion,  seeing  the  tears  she  turned  her  head  away  to  hide. 

"  I  am  not  any  longer  young,"  she  had  it  on  her  lips  to  say, 
but  she  did  not  speak. 

"You  have  so  much  pleasure  before  you  in  your  life,  I  hope," 
he  went  on,  "  you  need  not  regret  the  passing  of  one  pleasant 
summer.  It  is  only  when  the  pleasant  summers  lie  all  in  the 
past,  and  all  that  is  to  come  is  winter,  that  one  has  a  right  to 
talk  of  gloom." 

Christine  was  silent,  and  he  went  on  presently  in  a  more 
cheerful  tone. 

"  Your  winter,  I  am  sure,  promises  to  be  gayer  even  than 
your  summer.  Mrs.  Clybourne  only  yesterday  was  giving  me 
a  short  resume  of  all  that  has  been  going  on,  and  a  sort  of 
programme  of  all  that  was  projected  for  the  ensuing  month." 

"  Those  things  give  Madeline  more  pleasure  than  they  give 
me,"  she  answered  with  simplicity. 

"  But  they  ought  to  give  you  pleasure,"  he  persisted,  "  when 
you  think  how  much  is  done  on  your  account.  Mrs.  Sherman 
and  Col.  Steele  both  desire,  above  all  things,  you  know,  to 
make  you  happy." 

There  was  unconsciously  to  himself  a  slight  sarcastic  coldness 
in  his  voice  as  he  said  this ;  at  Col.  Steele's  name  a  warm  color 
flushed  over  his  companion's  face,  which  his  eye  caught  in 
stantly,  and  his  tone  did  not  alter  for  the  better  as  he  con 
tinued  : 

"I  am  unreasonable,  Christine,  perhaps,  but,  as  an  old 
friend,  I  have  been  trying  to  persuade  myself  I  have  some  sort 
of  a  right  to  ask  you  about  Col.  Steele — whether  he  satisfies 


THE    OKDEAL.  233 

you  completely,  and  whether  you  mean  to  give  him  the  happi 
ness  that  a  great  many  men  will  be  seeking  by  and  by,  if  they 
have  not  already  sought  it.  You  are  very  young,  Christine,  to 
make  up  your  mind  about  such  a  step  as  this.  I  wish  I  knew 
you  were  not  in  danger  of  deceiving  yourself  about  your  feel 
ings  in  the  matter." 

"  Dr.  Cathcrwood,"  said  his  companion,  pausing  and  turning 
towards  him  as  they  reached  the  end  of  the  walk  again,  "I 
have  something  to  say  to  you  that  will  change  your  fear  for 
me.  I  am  not  in  danger  of  deceiving  myself  about  my  feelings 
for  Col.  Steele  nor  for  any  one  else.  Whatever  might  be  my 
feelings  towards  any  one  who  desired  to  marry  me,  I  could 
have  but  one  decision,  could  make  but  one  irrevocable  an 
swer." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  said  slowly,  raising  his  eyes 
and  fixing  them  upon  her. 

"  I  mean,"  she  said,  speaking  in  a  voice  whose  agitation 
grew  with  every  word  she  spoke,  "  I  mean  that  I  shall  never 
marry  ;  that  I  am  bound  by  the  most  solemn  oath  with  which 
one  can  bind  one's  soul,  to  live  unmarried  ;  that  love,  real  or 
fancied,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  fate  I  have  before  me.  If 
I  loved  with  my  entire  soul,  I  could  not  marry ;  if  affection  and 
duty  and  authority  all  combined  to  urge  it,  I  would  die  before 
I  broke  my  vow.  Now,  you  know  why  the  world  ought  not 
to  be  my  pleasure ;  why  I  am  marked  out  and  different  from 
others  :  why  it  is  my  duty  never  to  think  of  things  that  other 
women  think  of." 

"  Christine  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low  tone,  while  his  lips 
grew  white,  "  you  must  explain  this  to  me.  I  do  not  know  of 
what  you  talk." 

"  I  talk  of  something  of  which  I  hate  to  think,"  she  said 
with  a  shudder ;  "  something  that  I  never  yet  have  told  to  any 
one.  I  meant  to  have  told  you  long  before,  when  I  told  you 
about  Julian,  but  I  could  not  bear  to  speak  of  it — I  could  not  bring 


234  THE    ORDEAL. 

myself  to  put  it  into  words.  You  ought  to  know.  Perhaps 
everybody  ought  to  know  ;  but  I  do  not  want  to  have  to 
tell." 

She  shivered  and  put  her  hands  for  a  moment  over  her  face, 
then  resolutely  conquering  her  voice,  she  raised  her  head,  and, 
leaning  against  the  grape  vine,  went  on  speaking  rapidly, 
though  low,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground  and  her  head 
averted. 

"I  told  you  what  I  promised  to  Helena  about  Julian  :  be 
sides  that,  she  made  me  promise  something  else.  It  was  only 
an  hour  before  she  died;  she  looked  so  dreadfully,  and  the 
room  was  so  dim  and  so  solemn.  I  was  a  little  girl  then,  and 
everything  solemn  frightened  me ;  and  she  sent  the  nurse  away 
and  I  was  alone  with  her.  She  told  me  about  Julian  and 
about  his  wicked  father;  and  she  made  me  promise  on  my 
knees,  solemnly  and  in  the  sight  of  God,  I  would  never  marry 
to  lead  a  wretched  life  like  her,  but  would  live  for  Julian,  and 
would  be  a  mother  to  him,  and  to  him  only,  while  he  lived." 

There  was  a  silence.  Christine  did  not  look  up  ;  but,  if  she 
had,  she  would  have  seen  upon  her  companion's  face  a  pallor 
that  would  have  terrified  her. 

After  a  few  moments,  she  went  on  : 

"  At  first,  I  did  not  think  much  about  that  part  of  the  pro 
mise  ;  but  since  I  have  been  grown  up  I  have  seen  that  it  was 
a  little  hard  upon  me,  and  that  circumstances  might  arise  that 
would  make  it  very  cruel." 

The  way  in  which  she  said  the  words  very  cruel  was  inex 
pressibly  pathetic :  she  said  them  half  involuntarily,  as  if  she 
were  trying  not  to  blame  her  sister  even  in  thought,  but  as  if 
the  deep  sigh  of  her  heart  had  breathed  itself  out  in  ^yords 
against  her  will. 

"Cruel !"  repeated  her  companion  after  a  moment,  in  a  voice 
so  low  and  deep  and  vehement,  that  she  started  and  looked 
towards  him  in  alarm.  "Cruel!  The  deep  damnation  of  such 


THE    ORDEAL.  235 

an  act  as  that ;  the  appalling  thought  of  such  a  selfishness ! 
Christine,  it  binds  you  no  more  than  the  wild  curse  of  a  maniac 
— it  does  not  touch  your  soul,  poor  baby  that  you  were.  It  is 
as  worthless  as  the  brawling  of  the  storm.  It  leaves  you  free 
as  air." 

"  I  bound  myself,"  she  answered.  "  That  was  not  Helena's 
act;  no  one  can  undo  it — no  one  can  persuade  me :  I  made 
the  vow  myself.  I  made  it  and  I  must  keep  it,  if  it  breaks  my 
heart." 

"You  shall  not  keep  it,"  he  said  below  his  breath,  with  a 
fierce  vehemence  of  eye.  "I  will  live  to  see  it  broken.  I 
will  undo  that  treacherous  woman's  sin  before  I  die.  I  will 
save  you  from  her  tyranny.  I  will  unloose  the  hold  she  has 
upon  you  with  her  cold  dead  cruel  hands.  She  has  blighted 
enough  lives.  She  shall  not  turn  yours,  too,  to  bitterness, 
my  lamb.  You  shall  not  drag  out  your  years  in  misery  for 
my " 

He  struck  his  hand  upon  his  forehead  and  turned  away  with 
vehement  emotion. 

"I  hardly  know  what  I  have  been  saying,"  he  resumed  in  a 
more  controlled  tone  presently.  "  I  feel  this  cruelty,  this  in 
justice  to  you,  bitterly,  Christine,  and  I  would  do  anything  to 
remedy  what  has  been  dono  against  you.  I  want  you  to  listen 
to  me,  and  believe  me  when  I  say,  truly,  as  a  Christian  man,  I 
do  not  think  r.s  promise  binds  you.  It  was  extorted  from  you 
under  circuu,  stances  of  peculiar  trial,  when  you  were  a  mere 
child  ;  a  mere  child  in  years  and  judgment — no  one  but  a  luna 
tic  would  think  of  valuing  such  a  promise.  Your  father  would 
be  perfectly  right  in  forcing  you  to  disregard  it." 

"  My  father  would  never  force  me  to  a  sin  as  black  as  that ; 
he  could  not  force  me  to  it,  for  my  promise  to  the  dead,  made 
in  the  name  of  heaven,  comes  before  any  duty  to  the  living. 
Dr.  Catherwood,  you  are  saying  a  great  many  things  that  I  do 
not  like  to  hear.  You  are  only  driving  me  away  from  you  by 


236  THE    ORDEAL. 

talking  so.  You  do  not  respect  me  much  if  you  think  to  move 
me.  I  am  as  firm  as  if  I  were  a  great  deal  older,  and  wiser  and 
better  than  I  am.  Because  you  have  seen  me  weak  so  often, 
and  because  I  have  been  guided  by  you  in  so  many  things,  you 
think  that  I  am  childish  and  unstable.  I  shall  be  sorry  that  I 
told  you  this.  I  never  have  told  any  one  before.  Does  it  look 
very  childish  that  I  have  kept  it  to  myself  so  long  ?  I  would 
have  kept  it  to  myself  for  life  if  I  had  not  trusted  you  so 
much." 

"  Christine  !  forgive  me,"  said  her  companion,  tenderly.  "  It 
was  for  your  sake  that  I  spoke  as  plainly  as  I  did.  I  hoped  to 
prove  to  you,  you  were  mistaken  in  your  duty.  I  pray  God  I 
may  yet  be  able  to  convince  you  that  you  are.  It  seems  to  me 
impossible  that  in  time  I  cannot  make  you  see  it  in  the  way 
I  do." 

"  You  cannot,"  she  answered ;  "  I  was  fourteen  years  old 
when  I  made  that  promise.  I  was  more  thoughtful  and  relia 
ble  than  most  children  of  that  age.  I  knew  what  I  was  doing, 
and  I  did  it  with  intention.  Not  one  month  before,  I  had  taken 
my  confirmation  vows.  I  was  thought  old  enough  for  that. 
I  took  this  in  the  same  spirit,  with  consciousness  of  the  same 
awful  presence.  Do  not  try  to  convince  me  of  what  your  own 
heart  cannot  be  convinced.  The  faithful  keeping  of  this 
promise  has  become  the  intention  of  my  life.  If  I  broke  it 
now,  I  would  be  breaking  the  added  resolutions  of  all  the  days 
that  have  passed  since  it  was  made.  Do  not,  if  you  are  indeed 
my  friend,  add  any  to  the  weight  I  have  to  bear.  Forget  what 
I  have  told  you.  Never  breathe  it  to  my  father,  for  you  violate 
my  confidence  if  you  do.  Do  not  speak  of  it  again  to  me,  and 
forget  it  if  you  can  yourself." 

"  If  I  can,"  he  repeated  under  his  breath,  then  turning  to  her 
in  a  pleading  way,  he  said  :  "Dear  Christine!  let  me  say  this 
to  you,  let  me  remind  you  of  one  thing.  By  keeping  religious 
ly  the  letter  of  the  promise,  you  make  suffering  for  others  be- 


THE   ORDEAL.  237 

sides  yourself.  By  keeping  the  spirit  of  it,  you  can  satisfy 
your  own  conscience,  and  serve  Julian  as  well." 

"  And  affront  heaven  with  a  lie.  No,  Dr.  Catherwood,  you 
cannot  make  me  do  that  wickedness.  I  know  God  will  not  let 
me  fall  so  terribly.  I  am  sure  of  strength,  I  think." 

"  Listen,  Christine.  You  are  looking  at  this  only  in  a  morbid 
way.  You  have  kept  it  a  dark  secret  in  your  heart  so  long, 
you  do  not  know  how  it  looks  by  daylight.  Let  me  tell  you 
how  it  looks  to  me — to  me — a  man  mature  in  years,  temperate 
in  judgment,  by  the  grace  of  God,  a  Christian." 

"  No,  Dr.  Catherwood,  do  not  tell  me.  I  know  all  that  you 
would  say,  but  my  mind  cannot  change.  You  must  not  talk 
to  me  about  it." 

"  But,  Christine,  think  of  -this.  I  know  your  father's  dearest 
earthly  wish  is  to  see  you  married  safely  before  he  is  called  to 
leave  you." 

"  My  father  will  trust  me  when  I  tell  him  I  am  safer  without 
being  married,"  she  returned  quickly,  and  with  a  change  of 
tone.  That  sentence  of  her  companion's  brought  back  memory 
of  painful  times. 

"  Yes,  he  may  submit,  but  he  will  be  pained  and  disappoint 
ed.  I  know  how  great  a  dread  it  is  to  him  to  leave  you  unpro 
tected." 

"God,  perhaps,  will  leave  him  longer  than  you  think;  and 
after  that,  duty  is  my  best  protection." 

"  But  he  will  not  see  it  so ;  you  will  inflict  a  pang  on  him, 
and  on  the — the  man  whose  happiness  depends  upon  your  love, 
Christine." 

"There  is  no  one  whose  happiness  depends  on  that,"  she  re 
turned.  "The  man  the  world  has  chosen  for  me,  Dr.  Cather 
wood,  would  never  have  my  love,  even  if  I  were  at  liberty  to 
marry  him." 

"  Then  you  do  not  love  this  Colonel  Steele  ?"  he  said,  fixing 
a  sudden  and  piercing  glance  upon  her  face. 


238  THE    ORDEAL. 

"  You  know  I  do  not,"  she  exclaimed  almost  bitterly,  turning 
suddenly  to  leave  him.  He  caught  her  hand  and  drew  her 
back. 

"  Christine!  "  he  said,  in  a  low,  smothered  voice.  "Look  at 
me !  Honestly — and  tell  me  from  your  heart — if  there  is  no 
one  else  for  whom  you  repent  you  made  that  vow  ?" 

She  had  started  to  leave  him,  but  he  held  her  hand,  and  she 
turned  her  face  around  and  their  eyes  met ;  one  moment,  the 
only  one  in  life,  fate  said,  in  which  they  might  look  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  read  the  truth  ;  one  long,  long  draught  of  love 
from  the  depths  of  each  other's  souls. 

If  "any  other  love  tale  and  any  other  fate  had  been  Chris 
tine's,  she  would  have  listened  with  downcast  eyes,  with  trem 
bling  blushes,  with  averted  face ;  but  now,  despairing,  yearning, 
tearless,  she  lifted  her  head  and  gazed  with  deep,  passionate, 
loving  eyes,  into  eyes  as  deep,  as  loving,  more  passionate  than 
hers.  O  the  desolate  garden  !  The  still,  grey,  mournful  sky! 
The  falling  faded  leaves !  What  a  strange  pair  of  lovers  stood 
in  the  midst  of  that  silent  gloom,  despairing,  dumb.  Knowing 
for  the  first  time  the  full  bliss  of  loving  ;  knowing  at  the  same 
time  the  certainty  of  parting ;  the  cup  just  at  their  lips  to  be 
struck  aside — 

"  Like  water  spilled  upon  the  plain 
Not  to  be  gathered  up  again." 

The  whole  capacity  of  their  souls  for  happiness,  the  whole  satis 
faction  of  each  in  the  other's  love,  the  future  that  had  been 
possible,  the  desolation  that  was  now  inevitable — all  these,  with 
all  their  contingent  and  attendant  circumstances,  with  all  their 
wealth  of  light,  and  depth  of  shade,  crowded  and  filled  the 
moments  that  they  stood  thus  hand  in  hand  under  the  mourn 
ful  autumn  sky. 

The  acknowledgment  of  a  passion  is  in  one  sense  its  birth ; 
till  it  has  been  spoken,  it  is  not  full,  living,  real ;  this  passion, 
as  it  woke  to  life,  dealt  death  to  those  in  whose  hearts  it  was 


THE    OKDEAL.  239 

born.  A  perfect  love,  a  true  marriage  of  souls,  thwarted  and 
blasted  and  denied  for  ever  its  completion.  No  wonder  that, 
man  and  woman  loving  thus,  thus  joined  by  God  in  soul,  they 
felt  in  all  its  strength  the  cruelty  and  malice  of  the  human 
selfishness  that  had  put  them  asunder  for  their  earthly  lives. 

"  There  is  no  hope,"  Christine  said  at  last,  in  a  low,  unnatural 
dead  voice.  Her  companion  did  not  speak,  did  not  attempt 
any  sort  of  a  rejoinder.  At  that  moment  the  shrill  tones  of  a 
child  reached  them  from  the  house,  calling  petulantly  her  name. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said ;  he  shivered  as  the  child's  voice  met 
his  ear,  and  unclasping  her  hand,  without  a  word  let  her  go 
from  him.  He  did  not  even  watch  her  till  she  disappeared  into 
the  house  ;  he  turned  away,  and  stood  dumb  and  motionless 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 


240  HELENA'S  WORK. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

HELENA'S  WORK. 

"  Shall  I  not  weep,  my  heartstrings  torn, 

My  flower  of  love  that  falls  half  blown, 
My  youth  uncrowned,  iny  life  forlorn, 
A  thorny  path  to  walk  alone  I  " 

HOLMES. 

CHRISTINE  went  directly  up  the  stairs,  and  past  the  room  where 
Julian  was  calling  for  her  petulantly.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  did  not  answer  him,  did  not  hurry  to  find  out  his  de 
mand,  but  went  towards  her  own  room,  and  shut  herself  in, 
and  then  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  with  an  audible  cry  of 
wretchedness.  She  clasped  her  hands  above  her  forehead — 
unclasped  them,  rose,  and  walked  about  the  room. 

The  room  began  to  feel  to  her  like  a  prison,  and  she  opened 
the  window  and  knelt  down  by  it,  and  leaned  her  head  forward 
to  catch  the  air.  But  the  pine-trees  before  the  house  grew 
close  up  against  the  window,  and  still  she  felt  that  she  should 
smother.  Oh,  what  had  she  done  to  deserve  this  !  Why  was 
she  born  to  such  a  fate  ?  Why  had  she  not  died  like  the  other 
children,  who  lay  so  still  and  safe  there  in  the  churchyard  ? 
Not  like  her  to  live  to  be  old,  and  grey,  and  dull,  to  live  years 
and  years  in  a  misery  that  never  would  grow  old.  Not  like 
her  lo  hate  life  as  she  looked  ahead,  to  hate  life  as  she  looked 
back.  Not  like  her  to  feel  a  bitter  reproach  against  the  dead, 
a  yearning,  hopeless  love  towards  the  living,  who  to  her  must 
be  for  ever  dead. 

O  cruel  sister — 0  selfish  mother's  love  to  which  she  had 
been  sacrificed.  Helena's  livid,  ghastly  face  rose  up  before  her 


HELENA'S  WORK.  241 

and  she  reproached  it  in  her  misery,  defied  it  in  her  despair. 
She  had  often  wondered,  as  she  used  to  watch  long  silent  nights 
by  Julian's  bed,  whether  Helena  knew,  whether  the  spirit  of 
the  mother  was  not  near  her,  blessing  her  for  keeping  faith  with 
her,  watching  with  her  by  her  child's  sick  bed.  She  wondered 
now  if  she  were  near ;  she  felt  the  air  close  and  thick  and 
heavy,  as  the  dusk  came  on,  and  she  shivered  with  the  thought 
that  her  spirit  might  be  even  now  within  hearing  of  her 
broken  words,  within  touch  of  her  throbbing,  feverish  brow. 
She  hoped  she  was  there — seeing  the  wreck  she  had  made, 
knowing  the  blight  her  cruelty  had  brought.  She  had  no 
right  to  be  sleeping  calm  and  still,  while  -she,  the  little  girl 
upon  whom  she  had  laid  her  monstrous  burden,  was  struggling 
and  fainting,  and  gasping  beneath  its  weight.  Oh,  she  had  done 
a  base  thing  to  her  motherless  little  sister  !  She  had  bade  her 
keep  it  a  secret  from  her  father ;  she  had  done  well ;  what 
would  his  generous  nature  not  have  felt  at  such  a  selfish  act ! 
Oh,  she  prayed  God  Helena  might  know — might  feel — might 
see ;  quick  and  dead  were  alike  to  her  to-night,  head  and 
heart  burning  up  in  the  tortures  of  her  new  agony.  She  could 
not  fear  the  dead,  for  she  longed  for  death  itself,  she  craved  it 
passionately.  She  did  not  see  how  she  possibly  could  live  and 
bear  this  pain.  But  she  knew  that  she  should,  and  that  made 
it  what  it  was. 

Life  as  it  would  be  to  her,  and  life  as  it  might  have  been ! 
Her  innocent  and  pure  mind  had  never,  till  that  moment  of 
awakening,  pictured  to  itself  the  happiness  of  married  love,  the 
only  earthly  happiness  that  is  worth  the  name.  It  seemed  as 
if  earth  had  suddenly  flowered  into  a  paradise,  and  then  the 
gates  had  been  shut  upon  her,  and  she  had  been  left,  dreary 
and  alone,  in  the  waste  without.  A  thousand  powers  of  love, 
a  thousand  new  perceptions,  new  emotions  awoke  within  her,  to 
turn  now  only  to  her  further  pain.  Before,  she  had  only  half- 
lived — half-understood  herself — half-known  the  things  about 
11 


242  HELENA'S    WOEK. 

» 

her ;  now,  this  strange  necromancy  had  struck  the  scaffolding 
away,  and  all  things  stood  revealed.  Behold  the  mysteries  of 
her  nature!  Behold  its  infinite  capacity  for  happiness — its 
infinite  capacity  for  suffering !  If  she  had  never  known  the 
possibility  of  this  bliss ;  if  her  whole  nature  had  not  been  so 
suddenly  developed,  she  might  have  passed  on  through  her 
appointed  years  unjoyously  but  unrepiningly,  with  the  simpli 
city  of  childhood  and  the  patience  of  faith,  not  knowing  that 
a  great  wrong  had  been  done  her  ;_a  deep  cruelty  ;  a  shameful 
injustice. 

And  not  only  to  her,  but  to  the  one  whose  love  for  her  was 
as  much  a  part  .of  his  life,  his  existence,  as  hers  was  for  him. 
What  he  suffered  !  Every  pang  was  doubled  at  the  thought  of 
him,  as  every  joy  would  have  been  doubled  if  joy  had  been 
their  destiny.  For  herself  she  felt  agony ;  for  him  she  felt  re 
bellion.  What  had  he  done  to  be  sacrificed  to  this  selfish 
mother — he,  a  stranger,  bound  to  her  in  no  earthly  way  ? 
Then  she  thought  of  how  Helena  had  injured  her  child  by  her 
selfish,  avaricious,  greedy  requisitions.  She  pictured  to  herself 
the  home  in  which  he  would  have  been  guarded  and  cherished  ; 
the  manly  gentleness  and  judgment  by  which  his  course  would 
have  been  directed ;  the  strong  arm  by  which  his  youth  would  have 
been  protected.  Now,  he  had  lost  all  that.  WThat  could  he  be 
but  an  object  of  aversion  to  the  one  in  whose  path  of  happiness 
he  stood  ?  What  would  his  future  be,  with  only  her  guidance 
and  protection?  Already  he  was  beyond  her  control ;  already  she 
felt  her  weakness  and  insufficiency ;  and  if  they  said  truly,  even 
the  help  her  father  gave  her  must  soon  be  gone. 

The  money  for  which  she  had  been  so  exacting,  could  do 
them  both  little  good  when  there  was  no  one  to  take  care  of  it. 
A  lawless  boy,  with  reckless  habits,  and  the  knowledge  that  he 
had  a  right  to  money,  what  could  there  be  to  save  him  from 
destruction  ?  Oh,  the  life  that  she  saw  stretching  before  her 
along  the  desolate,  aimless  years — cold,  grey,  cheeiless — change 


HELENA'S  WORK.  243 

coming  upon  all  but  her — her  young  companions  with  babies 
in  their  arms,  with  happy  fireside  interests,  with  love  to 
lighten  duty  ;  Julian  growing  up  out  of  her  reach — careless  of 
her  affection  ;  her  father  gone  ;  her  home  desolate  and  lonely  ; 
her  life  a  long  regret,  a  smothered,  unquenched,  smouldering 
rebellion. 

She  passed  through  years  of  suffering  as  she  lay  there  alone 
in  the  thick,  dull  twilight,  pressing  her  hot  hands  against  her 
burning  forehead,  and  moaning  aloud  sometimes  in  her,  intole 
rable  pain.  Through  the  darkness  and  the  stillness  of  the 
house,  at  last  she  heard  her  father's  voice  calling  to  her  from  across 
the  hall.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  heard  that  summons 
with  impatience  and  answered  it  with  tardy  and  unwilling 
steps.  She  arose  slowly,  and  pushing  back  her  hair,  exclaimed, 
with  reluctant  despair  :  "  O  heavens  !  cannot  they  let  me  alone 
to-night !" 

She  felt,  as  she  washed  the  tears  off  from  her  cheeks,  smoothed 
her  dress,  and  opening  her  door,  went  out  into  the  light,  that 
she  had  taken  her  first  step  in  the  long  journey  that  lay  before 
her,  hiding  the  anguish  of  her  soul,  and  for  duty  and  for  pride 
wearing  on  her  face  a  serenity  that  would  deceive. 


244  ONLY    A    MONTH. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

OKLY    A    MONTH, 
t 

"  Work  without  hope  draws  nectar  In  a  sieve, 
And  hope  without  an  object  cannot  live." 

COLEEIDSE. 

AFTER  Christine  had  gone  away  to  the  city,  Dr.  Catherwood 
did  not  come  near  the  Parsonage  for  several  days  :  then  he  was 
sent  for  on  some  plea  of  illness  in  the  household,  and  after  that 
he  came  every  day,  and  stayed  long,  and  left  with  a  homesick, 
heartsick  regret  each  time.  It  was  an  effort  to  him  to  go  when 
he  was  first  obliged  to,  after  his  parting  with  Christine :  he 
dreaded  acutely  going  into  the  house  again  ;  but  that  once  over, 
he  found  his  greatest  consolation  there.  He  would  spend  hours 
in  Dr.  Upham's  room ;  then  coming  down,  he  would  go  into  the 
parlor — walk  through  the  room  where  everything  recalled  her 
— open  her  books,  and  glance  through  them  for  some  trace  of 
her  in  them,  lift  the  lid  of  her  work-box,  touch  the  work  that 
had  passed  through  her  hands,  and  look  long  and  hungrily 
upon  the  little  picture  of  her  that  hung  beneath  her  mother's  ; 
a  mere  sketch,  a  soft  shadow,  a  sweet  thought  of  Christine,  but 
inestimably  precious.  To  not  even  that  had  he  a  claim.  That 
little  picture,  hanging  there  obscurely  month  after  month,  at 
tracting  the  eyes  and  thoughts  of  no  one  in  the  household 
probably,  of  interest  to  no  one,  of  value  only  in  a  possible  ex 
tremity,  even  that  he  could  not  ask  for;  even  that  he  must 
count  the  moments  of  looking  at  without  betraying  feeling. 
His  course  he  had  not  yet  decided  on  :  at  first  he  had  felt  he 
had  strength  for  nothing  but  to  go  away  from  her ;  he  felt  it 


ONLY    A    MONTH.  245 

would  be  impossible  for  him  to  live  near  her  and  not  make  her 
wretched,  and  he  loved  her  too  generously  to  be  willing  to 
sacrifice  her  peace  to  his  craving  desire  to  look  upon  her  face 
and  touch  her  hand  sometimes.  He  felt  that  for  himself  there 
was  nothing  but  gloom  ahead — but  for  her,  with  her  youth,  her 
sweetness  of  heart,  her  marvellous  religious  faith,  there  might 
be  a  future  of  peace  and  satisfaction.  So  at  first  he  meant  to 
go — to  separate  himself  for  ever  from  her, — to  meet  her  eyes 
never  again  on  earth  ;  to  trouble  her  peace  no  more.  To  pray 
and  make  the  prayer  honest  by  his  efforts,  that  she  might  for 
get  him  and  be  contented  with  her  lot. 

But  longer  thought  and  more  complicated  reasoning  brought 
him  nearly  to  an  opposite  conclusion,  and  it  was  a  long  while 
before  Ite  knew  whether  he  were  listening  to  reason  or  yielding 
to  a  selfish  and  tempting  love.  How  could  he  leave  her, 
he  reasoned,  so  unprotected,  in  such  a  trying  life  ?  Her  father 
he  watched  with  secret  and  growing  apprehension  :  his  active 
life  was  ended ;  he  might  linger  a  helpless  invalid  for  years,  or 
his  death  might  occur  at  any  moment,  Julian  was  a  charge  to 
which  he  was  unequal  now — the  care  of  his  property  would 
soon  have  to  pass  into  other  hands  :  upon  his  young  daughter 
would  come  the  heavy  weight  of  both,  and  the  insufficiency  of 
her  strength  for  either  seemed  to  him  an  honest  reason  for 
staying  where  he  could  relieve  her  of  them,  and  make  her 
path  an  easier  one.  These  doubts  and  waverings  tormented 
him,  a  man  used  to  clear  and  rapid  habits  of  thought,  and 
definite  in  all  his  plans.  An  illness  that  Julian  had  while  Chris 
tine  was  still  away,  settled  the  misgivings,  and  he  resolved  to 
stay.  He  was  certain  he  comprehended  the  boy's  ailments  as  no 
one  else  did,  and  as  no  one  else  could,  could  relieve  Christine's 
mind  of  the  alarm  she  always  felt  about  him.  A  sentence  in 
her  letter  to  her  father  written  after  hearing  that  he  had  been 
ill,  settled  his  mind  about  it : 

"  I  could  not  stay  here  as  I  do,  but  for  your  assurance  that 


246  ONLY    A    MONTH. 

Dr.  Catherwood  is  constantly  with  Julian,  and  apprehends 
nothing  worse.  While  he  is  with  him,  I  am  willing  to  do  as 
you  ask  me  to,  and  prolong  my  absence." 

Christine's  absence  was  prolonged  a  month  ;  her  father,  lonely 
as  he  would  have  been  without  Dr.  Catherwood,  still  urged  her 
staying,  and  felt  great  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  she  was 
happy.  But  his  satisfaction  lasted  only  till  he  saw  her.  Not 
very  apt  to  study  the  faces  of  those  around  him,  he  could  not 
help  being  struck  with  the  change  in  his  daughter's.  She  was 
not  the  same  Christine  who  had  gone  away  from  him,  he  was 
sure ;  and  he  watched  her  with  a  tender  solicitude,  while  she 
struggled  bravely  to  keep  up  a  cheerful  manner. 

But  it  was  like  a  fresh  wound,  to  come  back  to  her  quiet 
unchanged  home  again,  and  to  know  that  the  long  journey  was 
only  shorter  by  one  month  than  when  she  went  away.  She 
had  passed  through  such  interminably  long  days  since  then, 
had  had  such  terrible  experience  in  trying  to  make  the  conquest 
of  herself,  that  she  was  utterly  disheartened  to  find  herself  no 
further  advanced  in  any  way.  She  missed  the  excitement  of 
city  life,  which,  though  thoroughly  distasteful  to  her,  had  been 
a  stimulant;  and  without  it,  she  found  she  had  no  strength  at 
all.  The  stillness  of  the  house,  the  length  of  the  uneventful 
hours,  the  monotony  of  the  slowly  rolling  days, — was  it  possi 
ble  she  could  live  and  bear  them.  The  care  of  Julian,  and  her 
attendance  on  her  father,  seemed  no  help  in  those  early  days  of 
her  untoward  fate.  She  could  put  no  heart  in  what  she  did, 
and  hers  was  a  nature  that  though  capable  of  great  sacrifices 
for  duty,  was  weak  and  lifeless  when  working  only  for  that  cold 
task-master. 

Besides,  the  blow  had  fallen  on  body  as  well  as  on  mind; 
she  was  literally  only  half  alive.  Mrs.  Sherman  had  been  glad 
to  send  her  home  at  last,  for  she  felt  she  was  on  the  eve  of 
some  alarming  illness.  The  excitement  of  getting  home  kept 
her  up  for  a  day  or  two :  then  a  feverish  flush  on  her  cheeks 


ONLY   A   MONTH.  247 

at  night  gave  place  to  a  ghastly  white  in  the  morning,  and  Dr. 
Upham  took  alarm. 

It  was  the  fourth  day  of  her  return  to :  through  the 

morning  she  had  been  with  him  in  his  study;  but  after  dinner 
she  had  excused  herself  and  gone  away  to  her  own  room.  Five 
o'clock  came,  and  Christine  had  not  come  to  him,  and,  a  good 
deal  disturbed  by  her  unnatural  appearance  in  the  morning,  her 
father  concluded  to  go  to  her  room  and  see  how  she  was  feeling. 
It  was  only  across  the  hall,  on  the  front  side  of  the  house.  But 
it  was  some  weeks  since  the  old  man  had  been  beyond  his  own 
apartment,  and  he  wrapped  his  dressing-gown  about  him  and 
went  out  with  a  cautious  step  into  the  dim  and  chilly  hall. 
Christine's  door  was  standing  ajar  ;  he  pushed  it  softly  open  and 
entered.  She  lay  upon  the  bed,  with  her  face  upon  her  arms, 
a  burnino-  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and  a  troubled  dark  look  in  her 

O  ' 

eyes. 

"  Christine,  my  child,"  he  said  gently,  standing  before  her ; 
and  when  she  saw  him  she  gave  a  violent  start  and  tried  to 
sit  up. 

"  Christine,  you  are  ill ;  you  make  me  quite  uneasy.  What 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

She  tried  to  answer  him  in  a  reassuring  way,  but  sank  back 
on  the  pillow  faint  and  dizzy  from  her  effort.  He  put  his  hand 
on  her  forehead,  and  without  waiting  for  any  further  answer, 
started  towards  the  door,  saying  half  aloud,  "  I  should  have  sent 
for  him  this  morning." 

"  Father,"  cried  Christine,  starting  up  in  fright ;  but  her  voice 
was  too  weak  :  he  had  reached  the  door  before  she  could  com 
mand  strength  enough  to  arrest  his  attention.  She  attempted 
to  rise  and  follow  him ;  but  the  hurry,  the  agitation,  were  too 
much  for  her,  and  she  fell  back  on  the  bed,  breathless  and  pal 
pitating.  She  heard  her  father  call  to  Ann,  heard  Ann's  light 
step  down  the  stairs,  the  closing  of  the  door,  and  the  message 
to  Dr.  Catherwoocl  was  on  its  way. 


248  ONLY    A    MONTH. 

How  should  she  meet  him  !  Oh,  what  a  cruel  mistake  her 
father  was  making!  This  was  enough  to  drive  her  into  an  ill 
ness  if  she  were  not  ill  already.  The  hot  fever  seemed  rushing 
through  her  veins  with  double  fire ;  the  beating  of  her  heart 
sounded  so  loud  to  her,  she  could  hear  nothing  else.  In  a  little 
while — it  might  have  been  half  an  hour,  it  might  have  been  five 
minutes — Crescens  came  in  softly  with  a  light,  and  shading  it, 
placed  it  on  a  table  in  the  furthest  corner.  As  she  was  going 
out,  Christine  motioned  to  her  not  to  go  away.  The  woman 
raised  her  sulky  eyebrows  as  she  moved  slowly  across  the  room, 
and  taking  out  her  work  sat  down  by  the  shaded  light.  Chris 
tine  hardly  knew  why  she  wanted  her  to  stay,  only  she  was  ter 
rified  at  herself — she  dared  not  be  alone  when  he  came — she 
could  not  trust  herself  or  him.  Oh,  she  hoped  he  would  not 
come;  she  had  never  seen  him  since  that  day ;  she  was  so  mise 
rable,  she  could  not  bear  the  meeting  now.  Perhaps  he  would 
refuse  to  come — would  feel  as  she  did,  and  know  what  she  was 
suffering  from. 

But  no.  By  and  by  came  Ann's  step  into  the  hall,  followed 
in  a  moment  more  by  a  quicker  one  that  she  knew  as  well  upon 
the  walk  outside,  and  then  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the 
door.  Christine  listened  to  the  footsteps  on  the  stair,  their 
pause  at  the  study  door,  the  long  parley  between  her  father  and 
the  new  comer;  and  then  she  knew  that  he  was  corning  in 
alone.  The  room  was  very  dim.  The  low  lamp  with  its  thick 
shade  made  it  almost  twilight  where  the  bed  stood,  with  its 
white  curtain  swept  back,  and  its  pillows  crushed  and  disar 
ranged  by  the  feverish  aching  head  that  had  tossed  about  upon 
them.  There  were  queer  shadows  on  the  ceiling ;  Crescens 
with  her  back  to  the  door,  looked,  reflected  dimly  on  it,  like  a 
giantess  stooping  over  her  pile  of  work. 

Dr.  Catherwood  paused  a  moment  in  the  open  door ;  then 
entering,  quietly  went  up  to  the  bed,  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
Christine's.  For  the  moment  of  suspense  before  he  spoke,  she 


OXLY   A   MONTH.  249 

neither  saw  nor  comprehended.  She  felt  that  he  was  there,  but 
turmoil  was  in  her  brain,  a  giddy  rushing  in  her  pulses.  But 
when  he  spoke,  there  was  something  in  his  even  quiet  voice 
that  cut  through  the  mists  like  a  steady  stream  of  light,  that 
made  a  terra  firma  for  her  to  stand  upon.  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  all  that  that  tone  expressed — it  told  of  a  battle  fought 
and  gained,  of  a  course  decided  on,  a  place  for  both  of  them,  a 
new  life  inaugurated,  a  quiet  putting  down  of  passion  and  tak 
ing  up  of  fate.  She  felt  that  she  had  to  do  nothing  but  follow  ; 
that  he  had  resolved  what  was  best  Tor  them  both,  and  that  she 
need  only  obey  his  lead.  She  need  no  more  harass  her  poor 
mind  with  the  choice  of  paths  before  her;  he  had  mastered 
himself  and  all  the  difficulties  of  their  relations,  and  would  walk 
on  before  her  silently  and  with  authority.  All  this  his  voice 
expressed — a  voice  as  steady  and  firm  as  if  emotion  had  never 
shaken  it,  as  if  a  heart  of  fire  were  not  burning  beneath  it,  a 

'  O 

soul  of  yearning  tenderness  were  not  throbbing  tumultuously 
against  it.  But  no  accent,  no  tremble  of  what  was  within, 
found  expression  through  it ;  not  the  faintest  vibration  of  the 
tempest  shook  it.  He  sat  down  beside  her,  .with  his  cool  steady 
hand  on  hers,  and  said: 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  really  ill.  Why  did  you  not  send  for 
me  before  ?  Your  pulse  is  altogether  wrong." 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  and  turned  her  face  towards  the  light. 

"You  have  a  good  deal  of  fever,"  he  went  on,  "and  should 
have  given  up  long  ago.  I  want  you  now  to  keep  perfectly 
quiet.  I  will  give  Crescens  all  directions  about  your  medicine, 
so  do  not  trouble  yourself  to  think  at  all.  Let  her  undress  you 
now.  I  am  going  into  your  father's  room,  and  if  you  are  not 
comfortable  and  likely  to  sleep,  before  bed-time  she  will  let  me 
know." 

"  Very  well,"  she  answered  simply,  without  looking  towards 
him,  and  with  a  few  words  more,  he  rose  and  went  over  to 
Crescens. 

11* 


250  ONLY   A   MONTH. 

Christine  watched  him  as  he  stood  by  the  dim  light,  talking 
with  the  woman  in  a  tone  too  low  for  her  to  hear.  She  felt  no 
longer  agitation  and  alarm  ;  a  great  weight  was  gone  from  her 
mind.  She  felt  not  the  least  care  of  herself  or  the  least  anxiety 
about  the  future.  Her  brain  felt  dull  and  heavy,  but  her  heart 
beat  even  and  slow,  and  she  only  thought  of  rest  and  sleep.  If 
the  hand  upon  her  wrist  had  had  the  least  tremble  in  it,  the 
work  he  was  trying  to  do  would  have  been  undone,  and  fatally 
undone  perhaps.  But  he  was  a  strong  man,  and  had  himself 
well  in  hand.  Not  one  of  all  the  household  guessed,  through 
the  long  weeks  of  suspense  that  followed  that  night,  that  their 
anxiety,  compared  with  his,  was  but  a  trifling  and  unmeaning 
sentiment ;  that  his  whole  life  lay  in  the  chances  of  which  he 
talked  so  coolly  ;  that  night  and  day  he  had  no  rest  from  the 
gnawing  agony,  till  the  shadow  of  death  passed  away  from  the 
still  face  in  that  dark  room,  and  the  warm  life  crept  slowly  back 
into  the  chilly  faint  pulses  he  had  counted  and  weighed  his 
hopes  upon  so  long. 


MADELINE    AXU    CHRISTINE.  251 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

MADELINE    AND    CHRISTINE. 

"  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,  said 

The  Lady  of  Shallot." 

TENNYSON. 

"  O  who  can  dare  complain 
When  God  sends  a  new  duty, 
To  comfort  each  new  pain  ?  " 

A.  PBOCTOB. 

TVIREE  years  and  a  half  have  passed  since  then,  and  the  Parson 
age  garden  is  again  in  bloom,  the  hawthorn  is  again  shedding 
its  blossoms  down  on  Christine's  head  as  she  walks  there  alone, 
the  birds  are  merry  in  every  branch,  the  air  is  full  of  the  smell 
of  the  early  flowers  of  summer,  and  "  all  is  vernal  rapture  as 
of  old." 

Not  quite  as  of  old,  though,  it  all  seemed  and  sounded  to* 
Christine.  The  songs  of  the  birds  sometimes  "minded  her  o' 
the  happy  days "  too  much  to  make  them  very  merry ;  the 
sight  and  smell  of  the  returning  flowers  gave  her  no  longer  a 
thrill  of  young  delight,  only  a  soft  and  quiet  sense  of  pleasure. 
The  garden,  with  its  old-fashioned  beds,  its  sheltered  walks, 
was  more  to  her  now  than  it  had  ever  been  ;  it  was  quieter 
than  the  house  ;  no  one  came  there  but  herself  and  the  old 
gardener.  Julian  never  set  his  foot  in  it ;  he  was  far  beyond 
boyhood  and  playtime  now,  and  spent  as  little  of  his  time  at 
home  as  he  could  decently  arrange.  The  Rector  was  never 
out  of  the  house  in  these  days,  rarely  out  of  his  study ;  so 
Christine  had  the  garden  to  herself. 

She  was  walking  there,  this  afternoon,  with   a  thoughtful 


252  MADELINE    AND    CHRISTINE. 

face,  up  and  down  slowly  in  the  shade,  sometimes  reading, 
sometimes  looking  far  off  at  vacancy.  She  was  dressed  in 
white,  as  she  used  to  dress,  with  the  same  delicacy,  the  same 
grace  of  style.  But  if  her  beauty  had  depended  on  her  youth, 
it  would  have  been  gone  now.  She  looked  more  than  three 
years  older ;  she  had  almost  lost  the  peculiar  roundness  and 
freshness  of  girlhood  ;  few  people  would  have  noticed  her  now 
for  her  beauty,  though  the  best  part  of  it  still  remained  to  her. 
There  was  not  a  shadow  of  discontent  about  her  face,  not  one 
bitter  and  impatient  thought  had  left  its  trace  behind,  only 
there  was  a  deep  though tfulness  always,  a  wistful  regret  some 
times.  She  seemed  almost  painfully  mature  for  one  but  little 
over  twenty ;  people  looked  twice,  and  wondered  what  her 
actual  age  was. 

But  in  her  life  there  was  not  much  time  left  for  repining  and 
regret.  Quiet  as  it  was,  it  was  strong  with  motives  and  objects. 
She  had  an  intention,  and  she  was  living  it  out.  Julian  first 
of  all ;  then  her  father,  then  herself.  For  Julian  she  was  living, 
and  every  day  brought  its  disappointment,  but  she  did  not  give 
up.  The  care  of  her  father  was  a  sweet  care,  and  his  tender 
ness  repaid  her  doubly  every  day.  For  'herself,  she  had  taken 
the  inward  resolution,  which  so  few  women  ever  take,  of  making 
the  most  of  her  mind,  perfecting  and  developing  it  as  much  as 
possible.  She  had  been  driven  to  this,  because  she  saw  what 
life  was  before  her,  and  recognised  the  necessity  of  having  as 
many  resources  in  it  as  possible.  Many  women  waste  fine 
powers  of  mind,  because  they  have  no  definite  life  for  which  to 
prepare  themselves  ;  they  do  not  know  what  is  going  to  be  re 
quired  of  them  ;  nobody  talks  to  them  of  their  minds  after  they 
leave  school ;  it  is  all  wonder  and  excitement  then,  waiting  for 
the  turn  of  the  wheel  that  is  to  dispose  of  them  ;  the  precious 
moments  go  by,  the  desire  for  improvement  is  weakened,  all 
steady  pursuits  are  interrupted,  and  frivolity  of  purpose  is  suc 
ceeded  by  discontent  and  a  craving  for  excitement.  And 


MADELINE   AND    CHRISTINE.  253 

women  go  dragging  through  lives,  in  which  they  have  need  of 
all  their  strength,  only  half  developed ;  creatures  of  emotion, 
and  not  creatures  of  reason,  fit  companions  neither  for  them 
selves,  if  the  wheel  of  fortune  has  nothing  for  them,  nor  for  the 
men  who  choose  them  for  their  pretty  faces.  It  is  a  startling 
thought,  how  little  we  use  of  what  is  given  to  us,  how  grossly 
we  see  through  eyes  we  might  refine  to  keenest  delicacy ;  how 
weakly  we  grasp  at  what  effort  would  place  within  our  reach, 
how  much  beauty  goes  unnoticed,  how  much  happiness  lies 
untouched,  what  wonders  lie  unread,  what  strength  sleeps  un- 
exertecl.  Childhood  reigns  dark  in  the  mind*,  circumstances 
develop  the  heart,  and  the  heart  suffers  without  its  help  and 
strength  :  suffers,  sometimes,  for  errors  of  judgment  and  ill- 
devised  plans  of  life,  which  its  proper  cultivation  could  have 
completely  obviated. 

And  Christine  had  learned  to  find  pleasure  and  strength  in 
study,  after  the  keenness  of  her  sorrow  had  passed  away.  She 
had  studied,  first,  to  make  herself  companionable  to  Julian,  and 
to  assist  him  in  his  detested  lessons,  and  afterwards  she  had 
gone  on  for  her  own  sake  when  she  discovered  what  a  strength 
and  solace  it  became.  Her  desire  for  self-improvement  was 
an  astonishment  and  pleasure  to  her  father ;  he  was  never  tired 
of  watching  the  progress  that  she  made.  And  now  that  all 
the  duties  of  mistress  of  the  house  came  upon  her,  she  needed 
to  be  very  much  matured. 

The  Parsonage  had  always  been  an  hospitable  house.  Not 
only  the  clergy,  but  many  of  her  father's  early  friends,  men  in 
high  position  and  of  extended  information,  from  neighboring 
cities,  visited  intimately  there.  Intercourse  with  men  of  infor 
mation  and  cultivation  was  very  improving  to  her ;  having  no 
coquetry  or  desire  for  admiration,  she  was  able  to  profit  in  the 
fullest  manner  by  what  they  said,  and  entered  into  conversation 
with  men  of  all  ages  with  an  unembarrassed  grace  and  simpli 
city  that  is  very  rare  among  women  of  her  years.  The  result 


254  MADELINE    AND    CHIUSTIXE. 

was,  she  received  a  homage  the  most  delicate  and  flattering  ; 
she  became  the  admired  companion  of  her  father's  older  friends 
— the  truest  and  most  elevating  influence  of  the  younger  men 
whom  sometimes  she  met.  She  was  so  peculiarly  womanly,  so 
pure-minded,  so  simple,  and  yet  so  appreciative,  she  was  like  a 
revelation  to  many  of  them,  used  principally  to  women  think 
ing  about  themselves.  More  than  one  loved  her  with  more 
than  friendship — but  a  hopeless  love  for  such  a  woman  is  better 
than  the  heart  of  an  inferior  one. 

And  "  the  little  Upham  girl,"  frightened  and  pale  and  flutter 
ing  only  a  few  years  ago,  was  fast  becoming  an  influence  in  the 
parish.  She  was  taking  the  place  that  her  poor  mother  left 
vacant  by  her  early  death  so  long  ago.  She  was  winning  the 
hearts  of  all ;  and  by  her  fine  tact  and  admirable  judgment,  was 
bringing  order  slowly  and  imperceptibly  out  of  the  wild  confu 
sion  in  which  the  parish  had  been  plunged  by  Mrs.  Sherman's 
interference.  She  had  more  system  than  most  of  the  older 
women,  and  much  more  quiet  sense  than  any  of  the  younger 
ones ;  and  without  their  knowing  anything  about  it,  and  hardly 
knowing  it  herself,  she  was  doing  them  a  vast  deal  of  good,  and 
making  a  revolution  in  St.  Philip's.  All  this  without  the  least 
appearance  of  authority  or  prominence,  and  without  creating  a 
suspicion  in  the  minds  of  the  most  critical,  that  she  had  any 
claims  at  all  to  being  "  a  superior  woman."  She  did  not  parade 
her  bookish  tastes,  nor  her  clear  views  about  parish  matters. 
She  listened  very  deferentially  to  her  seniors,  who  liked  her  for 
her  respectful  manner,  and  acted  on  her  suggestions  without 
knowing  to  whom  they  were  indebted  for  them. 

This  pleasant  June  afternoon,  as  she  walked  up  and  down 
the  shady  path,  she  was  reading  a  very  learned  book  in  a  very 
learned  language,  and  she  gave  a  little  start  when  she  heard 
her  name  called  from  the  house,  and  saw  some  one  coming 
down  the  steps,  and  threw  the  book  upon  the  seat  below  the 
grape  vine.  She  was  a  little  ashamed  of  it,  it  must  be  confessed, 


MADELINE   AND   CHRISTINE.  255 

for  it  was  a  new  attempt,  quite  a  launch,  in  fact,  upon  the 
ocean  of  letters,  and  she  was  somewhat  doubtful  whether  she 
had  any  right  to  go  so  far  from  shore.  She  turned  towards  the 
intruder  with  a  little  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  gave  a  cry  of 
pleasure  when  she  saw  that  it  was  Madeline.  The  two  young 
women  ran  to  meet  each  other  with  the  enthusiasm  of  their 
sex,  and  kissed  each  other  several  times  before  anything  sensi 
ble  was  said. 

"  When  cWd  you  come  ?"  at  last  Christine  asked,  as  her 
friend  held  her  off  for  a  moment  to  look  at  her,  and  see  what 
ravages  had  been  made  by  time  during  the  six  months  which 
had  elapsed  since  they  had  seen  each  other. 

"  This  morning,"  said  Madeline.  "  I  left  mother  in  the 
midst  of  the  unpacking,  and  came  over  to  see  you  to  get  a  little 
rest.  I  have  all  the  summer  before  me  to  unpack.  What  is 
the  use  of  rushing  into  it  at  once  !  But,  Christine,  how  well 
you  look !  Pretty,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  be  candid,  and 
younger  by  two  years  than  I  do.  This  city  life  is  wearing  me 
out,  my  dear.  I  do  not  feel  worth  anything  when  I  come  home 
in  the  spring.  Every  year  I  resolve  I'll  stay  at  home  a  winter 
and  try  to  knit  up  the  ravelled  sleeve !  But,  so  it  goes.  I  get 
so  tired  of  the  country  before  autumn,  not  all  the  king's  horses, 
nor  all  the  king's  men,  could  keep  me  in  it  through  the  winter. 
It's  a  wonderful  thing  for  the  complexion  ;  you  look  like  a  clear 
white  rose,  but  rather  thin,  Christine.  Dear,  dear ! "  holding 
up  her  hand,  "  so  clear  and  transparent  of  hue  you  might  have 
seen  the  moon  shine  through." 

"  It  would  need  to  be  a  vigorous  moon,"  said  Christine,  put 
ting  her  hand  out  of  sight  under  her  friend's.  "Tell  me  what 
sort  of  a  winter  you  have  had,  and  what  has  happened  to  you." 

"  Nothing  has  happened,"  she  replied  in  a  tone  of  ennui, 
"  that  makes  the  winter  pleasant  to  remember.  The  same 
people,  the  same  routine,  gaiety  repeated  till  it  is  dulness, 
excitement  multiplied  till  it  is  tameuess.  But  do  not  talk  about 


256  MADELINE    AND    CHRISTINE. 

it, ;  I  told  you  I  came  here  to  be  rested,  and  to  hear  of  some 
thing  different.  How  is  your  father — how  are  the  parish  chil 
dren — what  have  you  been  reading  ?  Christine,  sometimes  I 
think  the  happiest  and  healthiest  hours  of  my  life  arc  those  I 
spend  with  you  in  this  dear  old  house.  I  think  of  them  in 
town,  sometimes,  and  they  rest  me  even  to  remember." 

Christine  had  the  tact%not  to  read  her  friend  a  lecture  in  her 
present  mood,  so  she  gave  her  hand  a  little  caress  at  these  last 
words,  and  began  in  a  pleasant,  piquant  way,  to  sketch  out 
home  affairs.  She  felt  even  more  tenderness  than  usual  for 
Madeline,  for  she  saw  an  exaggeration  of  the  ordinary  discon 
tent  and  restlessness  with  which  she  came  back  from  town. 

Madeline  was  not  happy  :  people  said  that  who  saw  her  in 
society  ;  her  heart  was  empty  ;  her  time  filled  only  with  frivo- 
,  lity  ;  her  mind  wasted  upon  trifles,  of  which  she  felt  the  insig 
nificance.  The  lord  of  her  heart  had  not  come  ;  society  was 
full  of  men  as  tired  of  it  as  she  was  herself.  They  flirted  with 
her  to  excite  themselves  and  consume  the  time,  and  she  accept 
ed  their  devotion  ;  because  devotion  she  must  have,  and  there 
was  no  one  else  to  give  it.  There  were  very  few  marrying  men 
in  the  fashionable  world  just  then ;  the  few  there  were,  were 
kept  away  by  those  by  whom  she  was  surrounded,  and  who  gave 
her  the  appearance  of  being  undignified  and  easily  amused.  Ma 
deline  despised  the  men  with  whom  she  talked  and  danced  and 
rode.  She  felt  herself  superior  to  them  ;  and  in  the  familiar  inter 
course  of  daily  meetings,  she  grew  accustomed  to  treating  them 
with  an  ease  and  carelessness  that  injured  her  with  the  more 
refined  and  exacting  part  of  the  world.  The  men  themselves 
knew  that  she  felt  no  regard  for  them,  and  that  they  would 
have  been  terribly  punished  if  they  had  gone  beyond  the  limits 
that  she  set  them  ;  but  her  carelessness  and  indifference  made 
her  less  attractive  in  their  eyes,  and  they  sought  her  principally 
because  she  was  handsome  and  danced  well,  and  was  clever 
enongh  to  save  them  the  effort  of  sustaining  conversation. 


MADELINE    AND    CHRISTINE.  257 

They  knew  that  she  endured  them  because  she  was  tenacious 
of  her  reputation  as  a  belle,  and  because  their  attentions  were 
necessary  to  her;  and  she  felt  this,  with  a  terrible  injury  to  her 
self-respect,  and  with  an  impatience  that  was  not  always  im 
proving  to  her  dignity  of  manner. 

Many  a  night  when  she  came  home  ennuy6e  and  heart-sore, 
she  cried  out  with  bitter  tears,  that  it  was  a  life  she  hated  ;  that 
if  she  did  not  get  out  of  it,  she  should  go  mad.  But  there 
seemed  no  way  to  get  out  of  it.  Things  at  home  were  misera 
bly  entangled.  Little  by  little  the  income  of  the  year  had  been 
anticipated,  till  there  were  debts  ahead.  Raymond's  habits 
were  growing  worse,  and  every  year  more  was  demanded  to 
keep  him  from  disgrace.  Susie  and  her  husband  had  got  very 
much  behindhand  ;  their  place  was  heavily  mortgaged,  and 
there  was  an  apprehension  every  year  that  it  would  have  to  go, 
and  that  the  whole  seven  would  come  upon  the  cottage.  Ma 
deline  saw  her  mother  was  harassed  and  miserable ;  she  felt 
the  full  burden  of  her  cares  and  apprehensions,  and  she  saw  no 
way  out  of  the  entanglement,  but  the  one  which  she  was  ex 
pected  to  open  with  her  beauty  and  her  cleverness. 

Her  beauty !  She  hated  it,  and  she  felt  it  going  from  her 
with  a  fierce  disdain.  It  had  done  her  no  good — only  led  her 
into  a  false  and  trying  situation.  And  her  talents;  she  had 
better  have  been  without  them,  and  then  she  would  not  have 
rebelled  so  bitterly  against  her  fate.  She  saw  silly,  simpering 
girls  marrying  advantageously  every  day,  and  she  decided  that 
a  woman  who  is  brought  up  to  marry  well  had  better  have  as 
little  brain  as  will  get  her  respectably  through  society.  Made 
line  saw  too  far  ;  felt  too  much ;  read  the  world  too  quickly  ; 
people  did  not  love  her  for  it.  After  the  first  draught,  she  lost 
her  pleasure  in  society ;  for  the  society  in  which  she  moved 
was  the  most  hollow  and  the  least  thoughtful  in  the  great  me 
tropolis.  She  longed  to  shake  off  all  connexion  with  it — to 
leave  it  for  the  quiet  pleasures  which  Christine  pursued.  But 


258  MADELINE    AND    CHRISTINE. 

how  could  that  be  done  ?  Never  with  her  mother's  sanction  ; 
never  without  a  struggle  for  which  she  had  not  the  strength. 

Sometimes,  in  her  passionate  moments,  she  resolved  to  do  it, 
to  save  her  self-respect  and  dignity,  and  to  strive  to  solve  the 
entanglements  at  home  in  some  other  way  than  the  way  for  which 
she  had  been  educated.  But  how  ?  Madeline  had  very  clear, 
good,  common-sense,  and  she  counted  over  her  resources  with 
stinging  self-contempt.  There  was  her  music  ;  well,  she  knew 
just  enough  about  music  to  be  able  to  do  nothing  with  it :  she 
had  been  brilliantly  and  superficially  taught,  and  had  had  need 
of  all  her  talent  to  cover  her  want  of  actual  knowledge.  Then 
she  had  quixotic  schemes  for  teaching,  but  they  only  lasted  till 
she  reflected  that  she  knew  nothing,  and  had  no  education 

O' 

worth  the  name,  and  that  she  lived  in  a  country  where  clever 
New  England  girls,  with  well  trained  mincls  and  well  directed 
energies,  were  starving  daily  upon  salaries  that  were  insufficient 
even  for  their  compact  wants. 

So,  after  all  the  tempests,  often  and  often  recurring,  it  came 
down  to  this,  that  she  went  back  into  the  old  life  again 
with  the  shadow  of  the  conflict  darkening  her  face,  and 
the  tumult  of  it  hardly  quiet  in  her  heart,  to  do  the  same 
things,  to  meet  the  same  people,  and  to  hope  for  the  same 
result. 

Raymond,  never  too  delicate,  was  already  beginning  to  say, 
Mad.  had  no  time  to  lose.  Many  of  her  young  companions 
were  married  ;  of  them  none  had  had  the  beauty  and  the  pro 
mise  that  she  had  had ;  and  none  had  more  needed  the  advan 
tages  of  a  wealthy  marriage.  Mrs.  Sherman,  after  all,  had 
been  of  very  little  advantage  to  her ;  the  particular  people  said, 
quite  a  disadvantage.  Mrs.  Sherman  was  very  gay — very 
fashionable ;  everybody  visited  her,  but  everybody  did  not 
respect  her.  She  had  a  reputation  for  match-making,  which 
made  most  men  afraid  of  her,  and  the  better  sort  of  young 
women  shy  of  being  considered  on  her  staff.  She  always  had 


MADELINE    AND    CHRISTINE.  259 

Madeline  with  her ;  some  severe  persons  said  she  had  proposed 
her  to  every  man  in  town.  The  sort  of  inen  whom  she  had 
about  her  were  not  the  men  who  married  handsome  girls  with 
out  anything  in  the  way  of  money. 

Col.  Steele  had  been  much  the  best  of  the  lot,  much  more 
than  an  average  specimen.  He  had  now  been  married  more 
thairtwo  y6ars  to  a  plain  but  sensible  heiress,  and  was  living  in 
cry  good  style  upon  her  money,  and  now  cut  the  Sherman 
clique  entirely  as  iooprononce  and  dashing  for  a  family  man  of  his 
substantial  claims.  Sometimes  he  came  up  and  talked  to  Ma 
deline  a  little  at  parties,  referring  to  "  old  times  "  in  a  patron 
izing  way  that  enraged  her  and  made  her  feel  as  if  she  were 
an  octagenarian,  lie  asked  always  about  his  pretty  little 
friend,  the  minister's  daughter,  and  wondered  that  she  had 
"  never  married  "  in  such  a  good-natured  and  indifferent  man 
ner,  it  quite  shook  Madeline's  belief  in  his  former  devotion 
to  her. 

For  the  last  two  winters,  the  cottage  had  been  shut  up,  and 
Mrs.  Clybourne,  feeling  keenly  all  that  depended  on  the  campaign, 
had  taken  the  field  in  person.  She  had  attempted  to  withdraw 
Madeline  quietly  from  Mrs.  Sherman;  but,  alas!  it  was  not 
easily  done.  She  had  already  been  classified  in  society,  and  no 
one  would  have  forgotten  that  she  had  been  in  a  fast  set,  if  she 
had  grown  as  tame  as  little  Richfield  herself.  Besides,  it  was 
difficult  to  dispense  with  Mrs.  Sherman's  carriage  and  opera-box  ; 
it  was  next  to  impossible  to  fight  the  battle  without  that  brazen 
veteran  to  rally  the  scattering  ranks.  For  younger  girls  were 
coining  forward,  and  Madeline,  now  four  years  before  the  world, 
was  not  the  star  that  she  had  been  at  seventeen.  A  wearing 
ml  exciting  life  had  made  serious  inroads  on  her  beauty,  and  at 
'.vcnty-one  she  had  no  longer  the  look  of  freshness  that  belongs 
rightly  to  that  age.  She  knew  a  great  deal  of  the  world — a 
great  deal  too  much  ;  she  knew  little  of  politics,  for  she  was  not 
among  men  who  cared  for  politics.  Intellectually,  she  was  re- 


260  MADELINE   AND    CHRISTINE. 

trograding,  for  she  had  lost  the  habit  of  study,  and  found  it 
harder  work  than  she  had  patience  for,  to  regain  what  she  had 
lost.  She  kept  up  with  the  easy  essay  literature  of  the  day, 
and  that  was  all.  She  felt  always  that  she  really  knew  nothing ; 
and  when  in  the  society  of  men  and  women  of  higher  and 
more  cultivated  tastes,  she  had  recourse  to  a  frivolous  and  sar 
castic  sort  of  conversation  to  keep  them  from  sounding  her  on 
points  she  felt  she  was  not  capable  of  meeting. 

And  in  her  religious  life  she  was  prospering  no  better  than  in 
her  intellectual  life.  Her  first  experience  had  shaken  her  confi 
dence  in  herself;  she  had  discovered  her  motives  so  mixed,  her 
enthusiasm  so  ill-judged,  she  felt  a  disgust  for  herself  and  a 
dread  of  another  self-deception.  She  never  remembered  the 
days  when  she  had  first  believed  in  religion  and  duty  and  self-sacri 
fice,  without  remembering  the  folly  and  the  disappointment  that 
had  succeeded  them.  She  tried  to  obliterate  them  altogether, 
and  to  drown  the  shame  of  having  been  deceived  in  the  pride 
of  having  proved  herself  superior  in  the  end.  She  laughed  at 
what  her  heart  still  yearned  for ;  she  envied  those  who  could 
believe  in  what  she  had  rendered  herself  incapable  of  believing. 

She  was  unpopular  among  the  people  of who  had  seen 

her  grow  up  among  them,  and  had  felt  a  good  deal  of  pride  in 
her  early  beauty.  Their  society  she  found  altogether  too  tame, 
and  the  only  excitement  she  could  get  out  of  it  was  in  the  at 
tempt  to  astonish  them,  and  to  provoke  comment  by  her  daring 
and  unconventional  manners.  The  mother  saw  all  this,  but  she 
saw  it  too  late.  What  Madeline  was  she  had  made  her  :  great 
beauty,  fine  powers  of  mind,  strong  and  tender  feelings — all 
these  materials  she  had  had  in  her  hands  to  work  with,  and 
here  was  the  result  that  she  had  brought  about.  She  tried  to 
stifle  these  thoughts,  and  to  convince  herself  that  all  was  not 
lost.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  turning  back,  and  the  only 
hope,  she  said,  was  in  going  forward  and  hardening  herself 
against  regret.  Sometimes  though,  the  thought  could  not  be 


MADELINE    AND    CHRISTINE.  261 

kept  back,  that  Madeline  would  have  been  happier  if  she  had  not 
been  thwarted  in  that  first  unwise  fancy  of  hers.  The  young 
clergyman  had  made  a  name  for  himself;  and  wiser  and  humbler 
and  as  earnest  as  at  first,  had  earned  a  position  that  Madeline 
need  not  have  blushed  to  share.  Of  course  it  would  not  have 
filled  the  measure  of  the  mother's  former  ambition  ;  but  any 
thing,  she  thought  bitterly,  would  have  been  better  than  to  see 
her  child  thus  miserably  unsatisfied  and  restless,  fast  losing  the 
beauty  that  had  gained  her  her  position  in  society,  heart-sore 
and  embittered  by  her  aimless  life.  She  heard  now  with  interest 
of  Mr.  Brockhulst's  success,  and  the  eclat  that  accompanied  his 
career ;  and  a  sort  of  hope  occasionally  crossed  her  mind,  that 
he  had  not  forgotten  Madeline,  and  might  some  time  come  back 
and  renew  his  suit.  What  a  downfall  of  ambition  the  exist 
ence  of  that  same  hope  expressed  ! 

And  Madeline  could  not  help  listening  when  she  heard  his 
name,  and  feeling  a  sort  of  jealous  pride  in  his  success,  though 
she  was  bitter  against  herself  for  feeling  it,  and  tried  to  con 
vince  herself  that  she  did  not  care.  It  had,  unconsciously  to 
herself,  something  to  do  with  her  interest  in  the  Parsonage,  and 
her  eagerness  to  see  Christine  and  to  hear  from  her.  That  very 
afternoon,  before  she  had  been  half  an  hour  in  the  garden  with 
her,  she  had  asked  carelessly,  and  with  a  strong  touch  of  her 
habitual  sarcasm,  whether  .anything  had  been  heard  lately  of 
their  ecclesiastical  Don  Quixote.  Christine  had  answered  "  No," 
and  Madeline  had  found  herself  more  ennuyee  and  restless  than 
before. 


262  VVOO'D    AND    MARRIED    AND    A'. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  WOOED    AND    MARRIED    AND   A.' " 

"  Yon  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world ; 
They  lose  it  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care." 

MEB.  or  VENICE. — Act  i.  Scene  I. 

BUT  Madeline  was  to  hear  something  more  of  her  old  lover 
before  the  day  was  over.  A  servant  came  down  the  path  and 
said  that  a  lady  was  waiting  in  the  parlor. 

"The  misery  of  it!"  cried  Madeline,  as  she  glanced  at  the 
card.  "That  little  Richfield  was  my  dread  before  she  was  mar 
ried,  but  now,  I  think  she  must  be  appalling." 

"  Almost,"  whispered  Christine,  with  a  little  shudder  and  a 
laugh,  as  they  went  towards  the  house. 

The  little  Richfield  was  married,  and  the  little  Richfield  had 
a  baby,  and  had  fallen  quite  naturally  into  the  error  of  suppos 
ing  that  these  two  facts  were  of  as  engrossing  interest  to  the 
public  as  they  were  to  herself.  She  was  fortunate  in  having  a 
very  good  husband,  who  was  not  ashamed  of  her,  and  who 
thought  her  an  average  woman,  made  priceless  and  inestimable 
by  being  converted  into  his  wife.  He  gave  her  plenty  of  money 
and  told  her  to  please  herself  in  everything  ;  and  the  little  wo 
man,  convinced  that  the  world  was  standing  still  to  watch  her, 
tried  very  hard  to  obey  him  and  to  please  herself  in  everything. 
Her  baby  had  more  clothes  bought  for  him  than  any  previous 

baby  in had  ever  had.  A  mass  of  lace  and  cambric,  he 

was  daily  promenaded  in  the  arms  of  his  nurse  or  driven  in  his 
mamma's  pretty  carriage,  the  envy  no  doubt  of  all  the  babies 


WOO'D    AND    MARRIED    AND    A'.  263 

who  had  their  little  chins  tied  np  in  woollen  hoods,  and  laughed 
ami  crowed  over  their  fourteen-year-old  nurses'  shoulders,  or 
were  dragged  about  the  pavement  in  little  wicker  waggons, 
tucked  in  with  blanket  shawls.  lie  was  sent  to  see  every  one 
whom  his  mamma  desired  especially  to  honor ;  and  that  family 
must  have  been  fatally  cut  off  from  favor,  of  whom  the  little 
matron  could  say  with  significant  firmness,  "I  have  determined 
not  to  send  baby  there  ..again." 

Her  thoughts  circled  consequently  in  rather  narrow  limits, 
and  her  conversation  took  no  wider  range.  Servants'  faults  and 
babies'  troubles  were  the  principal  themes,  varied  a  little  by  the 
goodness  and  devotion  of  some  husbands,  and  the  unsatisfactory 
nature  of  others,  the  comfort  of  having  plenty  of  money,  and 
the  impossibility  of  living  without  it.  She  was  naturally  ag 
gravating  to  all  less  fortunate  people,  and  Madeline  went  into 
the  parlor  sorely  against  her  will. 

Little  Mrs.  Dean  had  on  a  soft  pretty  French  bonnet  and 
several  very  elegant  articles  of  dress,  and  really  seemed 
almost  handsome,  overflowing  with  happiness,  and  looking  all 
the  mother  whenever  her  eyes  rested  on  her  baby.  Madeline 
sat  silent  and  scornful  while  she  chattered  on.  Christine,  with 
fortunate  tact,  appeared  to  listen  and  sympathize,  while  she  was 
really  very  much  ashamed  of  her,  and  was  truly  anxious  to  get 
her  into  more  sensible  ways.  She  had  a  real  tenderness  for  the 
pretty  baby,  though,  and  she  took  him  in  her  arms  with  a  mur 
mur  of  sweet  words. 

"  Him  will  ever  go  to  mademoiselle,"  said  the  French  nurse 
admiringly,  as  the  beautiful  boy  laughed  in  Christine's  face  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  towards  her. 

At  this  moment  Dr.  Catherwood  came  up  the  piazza  steps 
and  paused  unperccived,  at  the  entrance  of  the  hall.  Through 
the  open  door  he  saw  the  group  within,  and  as  he  looked,  his 
face  grew  clouded  and  his  mouth  grew  stern.  Christine  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms,  a  dimpled,  rosy  baby — looking  down  at  it 


264  WOO'D   AND    MARRIED   AND   A'. 

with  a  wistful  tender  face,  murmuring  to  it  soft,  low  words ;  it 
was  a  hard  thing  for  him  to  see. 

Madeline  sat  aloof  with  an  ungentle  face,  answering  care 
lessly  the  chatter  of  the  young  mother  who  was  beside  her,  the 
nurse  was  engrossed  in  smoothing  out  and  folding  up  a  beauti 
ful  India  shawl  that  had  served  for  a  wrapper  to  the  priceless 
baby,  Christine  had  him  for  the  moment  to  herself,  and  she 
stood  opposite  the  door,  the  soft  white  mass  of  baby  clothes 
mixing  with  her  own  soft  white  drapery,  a  lovely,  lovely  picture. 
She  bent  her  graceful  head  a  little  and  looked  into  his  face, 
holding  one  of  his  pretty  hands  against  her  cheek. 

The  expression  of  her  eyes  none  saw  but  the  new-comer, 
himself  unseen  :  it  was  a  deep  yearning  hungry  look  of  fond 
ness.  He  pressed  his  lips  together  and  walked  across  the 
piazza  with  a  heavy  tread. 

The  sound  of  his  steps  roused  those  within.  Christine  hastily 
put  the  baby  back  into  the  nurse's  arms,  Madeline  sprang  up  to 
speak  to  him,  most  glad  to  "be  relieved  of  her  companion,  who 
immediately  remembered  that  she  wanted  him  to  look  at  the 
child's  teeth,  which  he  had  not  seen  since  morning.  So  the 
Doctor  entered  with  his  usual  easy  smile,  the  baby  welcomed 
him  with  a  crowing,  cooing  noise,  while  the  old  Rector,  bent  and 
thin,  came  in  slowly  from  another  door.  Raymond  a  moment 
after  sauntered  up  the  steps,  and  the  quiet  old  parlor  was  soon 
full  of  pleasant  voices  and  faces.  The  baby  was,  of  course,  the 
centre  of  interest;  the  mamma  insisted  on  putting  him  in  Dr. 
Upham's  arms  and  asking  him  to  kiss  him  ;  then  Raymond  in 
sisted  on  taking  him  into  his  arms  and  tossing  him  up  to  the 
ceiling :  then  Dr.  Catherwood  must  look  at  his  teeth,  and 
Madeline  must  notice  the  embroidery  on  his  cloak,  and  Chris 
tine  must  hold  him  for  a  moment  to  see  if  he  were  not  heavier 
than  he  was  last  week. 

It  was  very  pretty  and  amusing,  for  the  baby  was  royally 
benignant  and  gracious,  and  the  little  mother  was  so  happy  it 


AXD    MAEKIED   AND    A'.  265 

was  impossible  to  be  out  of,  patience  with  her :  even  Madeline 
softened  somewhat  towards  her,  till  by  an  unfortunate  allusion  to 
the  fair  of  three  years  ago,  she  brought  up  the  contrast  in  their 
positions  too  strongly.  Madeline  thought  bitterly  of  that  day 
when  she  and  Christine  had  queened  it  so  grandly  among  the  less 
favored  beauties,  when  little  Richfield  had  moped  all  the  after 
noon  behind  her  pincushions  and  tidies,  and  all  the  evening 
beside  the  folding  doors. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Raymond,  in  his  lounging  way,  stopping 
to  make  eyes  at  the  baby  between  every  word — "  by  the  way, 
I've  heard  a  piece  of  news  to-day." 

"  A  piece  of  news  ?"  cried  Madeline,  with  animation.  "  Let 
the  child  alone  and  tell  us  what  it  is." 

"  An  engagement  ?"  asked  the  baby's  mother,  suspending  her 
caresses  for  a  moment. 

"  More  than  an  engagement,"  he  returned,  "  a  step  further." 

"  A  marriage  !  Oh  who,  Raymond  ?     Don't  be  hateful." 

"  Couldn't  be  hateful  if  I  tried,  my  dear.  "Tis  not  my  nature 
to — but  I'll  excuse  you  for  being  so  impatient,  for  it's  an  old 
flame  of  yours  who's  married  " — 

"  That  is  not  being  very  definite,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood. 

"  Not  Jack  Leslie  ?"  questioned  Madeline,  with  interest. 

"Xo,  nor  any  of  that  set — somebody  very  different,  my 
dear,  a  horse  of  another  color.  Xobody  less  than  your  friend 
the  parson — poor  Brockhulst,  whom  you  used  to  punish  so. 
For  my  part  I'm  glad  enough  to  hear  it.  If  he  had  perished  in 
a  decline  you  know  it  would  have  been  on  your  conscience." 

"  Mr.  Brockhulst  married !"  exclaimed  little  Mrs.  Dean. 
"  Well,  Maddy,  I  always  thought  he  was  a  flirt." 

"  Pray,  what  sort  of  a  choice  has  he  ma'de  ?"  asked  Christine, 
looking  furtively  towards  Madeline  as  she  tied  the  baby's  cloak. 
Madeline  was  sitting  very  still,  clasping  and  unclasping  a  brace 
let  on  her  arm  :  she  tried  to  speak,  her  lips  moved  a  little,  but 
the  words  did  not  come.  Her  face  was  pallid ;  it  was  fortunate 

12 


266  WOO'D   AND   MABRIED   AND    A'. 

the  sun  was  down  and  there  was  so  little  light  in  the  room. 
Christine,  in  rather  a  hurried  way,  went  on  questioning  Ray 
mond  and  drawing  attention  from  his  sister's  silence. 

"  Why,  he's  chosen  a  saint  this  time — he's  one  who  always 
goes  to  the  extremes,  you  know — a  pale  sickly  little  thing  who 
never  does  anything  but  say  her  prayers  and  teach  ragged 
schools.  I  met  her  once  last  summer  at  the  Livermores',  to 
whom  she  is  related :  I  acknowledge  she  appalled  me.  But 
then,  it's  proper  to  say  she  was  as  much  afraid  of  me,  and 
turned  very  white  and  looked  the  other  way  whenever  I  said 
anything  to  her.  In  that  way  we  did  not  become  very  inti 
mate, — but  I  can  testify  she  is  a  saint  of  the  worst  kind,  and  I 
think  Brockhulst  has  done  well :  they  will  be  translated  some 
fine  day  together,  there  is  not  enough  of  cither  of  them  to  die." 

"  Well,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  he  is  married,"  said  Dr. 
Upham ;  "  I  am  sure  he  will  be  happier." 

"That  depends  a  good  deal  upon  the  sort  of  woman  he  has 
married,"  said  Mrs.  Dean  sententiously.  "  A  man  puts  his 
happiness  very  much  in  his  wife's  hands." 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  doubt  he  has  chosen  wisely,"  said  Christine, 
anxious  not  to  make  Madeline  speak.  "  He  is  at  an  age  to 
marry  more  to  please  his  judgment  than  his  fancy.  He  will 
make  his  wife  happy,  too,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  they  are  as  well  suited  as  any  two  disembodied 
spirits  possibly  can  be,"  said  Raymond,  whistling  to  the  baby 
and  holding  out  his  watch  chain.  "  Livermore  says  they  went 
directly  to  the  Denver  Hospital  after  the  ceremony,  by  way  of  a 
wedding  tour,  and  that  they  never  see  each  other  but  once  all  day 
long,  and  that  is  at  a  convivial  meal  consisting  of  bread  and 
water,  which  lasts  juSt  eight  minutes  by  the  clock." 

"  Livermore  is  good  authority,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood.  "  I 
never  heard  yet  of  his  telling  the  truth  by  any  accident." 

"Take  care;  he's  a  friend  of  Madeline's,"  said  the  brother. 
'  Mad.,  it's  time  we  were  going  home." 


WOO'D    AND    MARRIED    AXD    A'.  267 

"  Yes,"  said  Madeline,  getting  up  and  speaking  as  if  she  had 
just  escaped  from  nightmare  ;  "  I  am  ready  ;  come." 

"  Stay  with  me,"  said  Christine  affectionately ;  "  you  have 
been  away  so  long." 

"  Xo ;  I  had  better  go,"  she  returned.  "  Where  did  I  leave 
my  hat  and  parasol  ?" 

Christine  went  out  with  her  into  the  garden  where  she  had 
left  them.  As  they  came  back  towards  the  house,  Madeline 
broke  the  silence  by  saying,  in  a  low,  cold  voice : 

"Christine,  I  suppose  that  you  have  concluded  that  I  loved 
that  man.  Do  not  be  uneasy  ;  I  shall  not  break  my  heart." 

"  No,  Madeline ;  I  do  not  fear  that  you  will  break  it,  but 
that  you  will  harden  it,  which  is  far  worse." 

"  Spare  yourself;  it  has  been  adamant  ever  since  I  have  been 
a  woman.  It  hasn't  a  natural  or  a  human  feeling  in  it.  It  is 
a  piece  of  workmanship  that  I  never  understood,  and  for  which 
I  do  not  hold  myself  responsible.  Stop  :  I  don't  want  any 
sympathy  ;  I  am  quite  beyond  all  that,  you  know.  You  might 
as  well  harangue  one  of  those  grave-stones  over  there.  Good 
by.  Go  in  and  tell  Raymond  I  am  ready  for  him ;  I  don't 
want  to  be  half  an  hour  saying  good  night  to  that  silly  woman, 
and  kissing  her  tiresome  baby." 

Christine  gave  a  sigh,  kissed  her  friend,  and  sent  Raymond 
out  to  her  to  the  gate. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Dean,  as  she  fastened  the  last 
_oop  in  the  baby's  cloak  and  sent  the  nurse  to  call  the  carriage, 
"it  seems  to  me  that  Madeline  is  out  of  spirits.  She  is  really 
changed  in  every  way." 

"  She  is  tired  and  ill  to-day,"  said  Christine  quickly ;  "  she 
has  been  unpacking  all  the  morning ;  she  wants  rest  after  her 
winter  of  excitement." 

"  It  is  a  great  pity  she  has  not  married,"  returned  the  com 
placent  little  wife.  "  She  never  will  be  happy  till  she  does." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Christine  answered  rather  insin 
cerely,  as  she  went  down  the  steps  and  watched  them  drive  away. 


268  SUSPICIONS. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

SUSPICIONS. 

"  For  it  is  with  feelings  as  with  waters, 
The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  are  dumb.". 

THAT  evening-  Dr.  Upham  was  not  so  well,  possibly  owing  to 
the  excitement  of  seeing  so  many  visitors  in  the  afternoon. 
Ann  went  down  for  Dr.  Catherwood,  who  was  out,  but  who 
came  up  about  nine  o'clock.  Christine  left  him  with  her  father, 
and  took  her  work  to  the  parlor  lamp  and  sat  silently  by  it  for 
an  hour.  Iler  eyes  were  troubled,  and  they  wandered  off  her 
work  very  often,  and  more  than  once  she  arose,  walked  to  the 
window,  and  listened  very  anxiously.  Twice  the  gate  opened, 
and  she  quickly  resumed  her  place,  banished  the  care  from  her 
brow,  and  looked  up  ready  to  greet  the  new  comer  cheerfully. 
But  it  was  only  a  servant  with  some  message  and  a  trifling  in 
vitation,  and  in  the  silence  that  ensued,  the  anxiety  came  back 
redoubled. 

Eleven  o'clock  struck — half-past — and  still  the  gate  did  not 
open  again.  Christine  pressed  her  lips  together,  and  tried  to 
keep  back  the  sudden  tears  that  came  with  the  sound  of  the 
striking  clock.  She  was  not  new  to  these  vigils ;  Julian  was 
no  longer  a  child  whom  Crescens  drove  to  bed  at  the  bayonet's 
point,  but  a  great  overgrown  lad  of  seventeen,  who  scorned 
Christine  as  he  did  Cresceus,  and  who  considered  that  he  owed 
allegiance  and  submission  to  no  living  mortal.  His  grandfather 
could  only  counsel — his  aunt  could  only  sue;  the  youth  had 
long  since  taken  the  bit  between  his  teeth  and  was  going  pell- 
mell  to  destruction. 


SUSPICIONS.  209 

All  the  evil  in  him,  and  there  had  always  been  more  evil  in 
him  than  in  any  other  child  of  Adam,  had  flowered  out  into 
luxurious  growth  within  these  last  three  years.  He  was  not 
even  a  polite  young  villain  ;  he  was  a  loafer,  a  tavern  lounger, 
a  hard  drinker,  a  rough  swearer.  His  tastes  led  him  to  the 
lowest  haunts,  and  he  brought  away  from  them  their  enduring 
brand. 

He  had  outgrown  the  aristocratic  look  of  his  childhood. 
He  was  still  handsome,  strikingly  so  ;  but  it  was  the  lowest 
and  least  pleasing  form  of  beauty ;  his  eye  was  not  only  keen 
and  cold  as  it  had  always  been,  it  had  an  evil  brightness  that 
made  Christina  shudder  ;  and  his  month,  the  baby  mouth  tlwt 
she  had  kissed  a  thousand  times  with  almost  a  mother's  fond 
ness,  had  lost  its  childish  beauty,  and  expressed  all  the  sinful 
passions  of  which  his  eyes  showed  the  knowledge. 

The  first  awakening  to  this  fact,  the  first  startling  discovery 
of  the  impurity  and  boldness  of  the  boy,  had  been  the  worst 
part  of  her  trial.  For  a  long  time  she  had  felt  the  distance 
growing  between  them,  had  known  that  he  was  becoming  more 
than  ever,  something  that  she  could  not  understand;  but  when 
the  first  palpable,  unmistakable  proof  came  that  he  had  fallen, 
she  had  her  burst  of  grief,  her  agony  of  disappointment,  and 
then  she  rose  and  went  forward  bearing  her  burden  with  silent 
fortitude.  She  did  whatever  she  could  devise  to  make  the 
house  attractive  to  him ;  she  invited  those  of  his  own  age 
there,  and  made  it  bright  and  cheerful  with  young  girls  and 
music  and  pleasure,  but,  alas  !  pleasure  in  which  innocence  and 
purity  could  share  was  not  pleasure  to  him  ;  he  showed  his 
contempt  and  distaste  without  reserve,  and  Christine  gave  up 
her  stratagems  with  a  sigh.  To  her  father  she  never  dared 
disclose  the  full  extent  of  his  wrong-doing,  but  he  knew  enough 
to  be  bowed  down  with  sorrow.  Remonstrance,  warning, 
counsel,  only  seemed  to  harden  him ;  Christine  had  ceased  to 
speak  to  him  about  his  evil  courses,  and  met  him  with  manners 


270  SUSPICIOXS. 

simple,  affectionate,  and  free  from  all  reproach.  She  could  only 
do  this  for  him  ;  he  should  ever  meet  truth  and  purity  at  home  ; 
he  should  always  find  forbearance  and  tenderness  waiting  for 
him  there,  whenever  he  would  come  for  it. 

The  little  town  had  not  had  such  a  promising  scandal  in  it 
since  poor  Helena's  time.  The  boy  was  talked  of  in  all  circles, 
and  the  worst  made  of  his  faults.  There  were  many  versions 
of  his  treatment  at  home.  Some  said  he  never  was  reproved 
nor  warned  ;  others  said  that  he  had  been  cast  off  entirely,  and 
that  his  grandfather  never  saw  him.  Some  were  dissatisfied 
with  the  leniency  manifested  towards  him  ;  others  were  dis- 
edified  by  the  harshness  with  which  report  said  he  was  treated. 
In  no  case  were  the  Rector  and  his  daughter  considered  to  be 
doing  right,  and  Christine  was  not  wrong  in  feeling  that  Julian's 
course  was  undoing  all  that  her  father's  blameless  life  and  her 
own  self-sacrifice  would  have  done  to  lead  the  world  to  believe 
in  the  Christianity  that  they  professed. 

Dr.  Catherwood  was  the  only  one  who  acted  at  all  as  a 
restraint  to  Julian  ;  he  had  no  longer  any  influence  with  him 
that  went  deep  enough  to  promise  any  good  result.  He  had 
given  up  the  hope  of  changing  him ;  he  saw  the  disease  had 
struck  too  deep  a  root ;  he  only  trusted  to  hold  him  so  in  check 
as  to  prevent  his  total  ruin  now.  If  one  germ  of  self-respect  conld 
be  left  alive  there  was  a  chance  that,  his  mad  boyhood  past,  it 
might  develop  into  something  healthy.  Julian  hated  him,  and 
appeared  to  revolt  from  his  interference  more  than  from  any 
other  ;  but  in  his  presence  he  was  subdued,  and  to  his  directions, 
even  when  absent  from  him,  he  paid,  under  protest,  a  sort  of 
grudging  and  ungracious  regard.  Christine  wondered  at  this, 
and  so  did  all  others  who  were  much  about  him ;  Dr.  Cather 
wood  had  no  hold  over  him,  such  as  his  aunt  or  his  grandfather 

7  o 

might  be  supposed  to  have,  from  their  power  to  supply  him 
with  money  or  to  withhold  it  from  him.  He  had  no  authority 
as  a  guardian,  no  influence  as  a  benefactor,  for  such  a  claim  the 


SUSPICIONS.  2Y1 

boy  would  have  scouted ;  but  he  nevertheless  kept  him  in  awe 
of  his  displeasure,  and  by  the  mere  force  of  his  determination 
held  him,  absent  and  present,  under  something  like  restraint. 

To  him  Christine  had  always  gone  when  she  was  in  per 
plexity  about  her  duty,  and  the  boy  soon  found  Dr.  Gather- 
wood  knew  fully  his  plans  and  purposes  and  resources,  and  had  his 
eye  forever  on  him  ;  no  revel  so  secret,  no  companion  so  sly,  but 
Dr.  Catherwood  knew  fully  all  that  could  be  known  about  them. 
A  larger  portion  of  his  time  than  Christine  suspected  was  consumed 
in  this  surveillance ;  he  was  well  known  and  much  dreaded  in 
all  the  haunts  of  vice  with  which  the  growing  town  abounded, 
and  to  his  resolution  and  sharp  management  it  was  owing  that 
Julian  long  ago  was  not  openly  disgraced.  The  men  whose 
business  it  was  to  tempt  and  destroy  the  youths  whom  they 
could  get  within  their  influence,  stood  in  some  awe  of  this 
acute  and  determined  guardian,  and  were  rather  shy  of  connect 
ing  themselves'in  any  way  with  Julian's  mad  career. 

Dr.  Catherwood  grew  older  and  sterner-looking ;  he  did  not 
lose  his  genial  and  sympathetic  manner  when  in  the  world,  but 
when  silent  and  by  himself  the  change  was  very  visible.  No 
one  had  cause  to  say  that  he  was  altered,  because  towards 
them  he  was  the  same.  No  sufferer  was  the  poorer  for  the 
withdrawal  of  his  sympathy,  no  home  where  he  was  useful 
could  complain  of  his  estrangement ;  but  towards  himself,  in  his 
inner  life,  he  was  solitary,  stern,  and  gloomy.  To  meet  him 
driving  alone  out  on  some  distant  country  road,  absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts,  with  knit  brow  and  stern  lips,  one  would  have 
said,  that  is  a  man  too  full  of  trouble  and  perplexity  to  do  the 
world  much  service.  But  the  sudden  softening  of  the  hard- 
drawn  lines,  the  warmth  of  the  fine  smile  at  the  sight  of  a 
well  known  face,  or  the  call  to  some  act  of  kindness,  would 
dissipate  the  image  of  the  self-absorbed  misanthropist,  and 
place  in  its  stead  that  of  the  genial,  honest-hearted  man  of 
feeling.  Ilis  self-control  was  beyond  praise;  his  power  of  self- 


272  SUSPICIONS. 

forgetfulness  beyond  precedent ;  Christine  looked  at  him  with 
secret  wonder,  questioning  if  he  had  forgotten,  if  he  -were 
reconciled  to  what  he  had  so  boldly  rebelled  against  at  first. 

The  thought  filled  her  with  jealous  misery,  and  then  brought 
bitter  penitence.  Uad  she  not  hoped  and  prayed  he  might  for 
get  and  learn  another  happiness  ?  But  she  had  not  believed  that 
it  was  possible  ;  she  felt  rebellion  when  she  found  that  it  had 
come  to  pass.  And  her  manner  had  a  coldness  and  a  deadness 
in  it  when  they  were  together  that  had  the  effect  of  making 
him  believe  she  had  outgrown  the  youthful  passion  that  her 
eyes  betrayed  on  that  November  afternoon  in  the  old  garden. 
He  almost  doubted,  as  he  recalled  the  scene,  whether  his  own 
passion  had  not  colored  all  he  saw  of  her  emotion.  What  had 
she  said  ?  How  had  she  betrayed  the  love  that  he  had  allowed 
himself  to  believe  in?  She  was  so  young,  so  impressionable, 
had  he  not  mistaken  her  emotion  at  learning  his  feelings  to 
wards  her,  for  a  depth  of  affection  she  never  meant  to  express  ? 
He  could  not  believe  that  one  so  young  could'have  made  the 
conquest  that  she  had  made ;  in  his  heart  he  thought  her  cold 
and  passionless,  as  she  believed  him  indifferent  and  forgetful. 
So  true  it  ts  that  no  hearts,  however  true,  can  bear  the  test  of 
rigid  silence  and  suppression.  Interviews  now  were  painful, 
and  rarely  sought  for  by  either  one  of  them. 

But  that  evening,  as  Christine  waited  for  Julian  in  the  parlor, 
she  resolved  to  speak  to  Dr.  Catherwood  as  he  came  down 
from  her  father's  room.  She  heard  the  door  above  close,  and 
Dr.  Catherwood's  step  upon  the  stairs,  and  she  felt  the  sort  of 
throb  that  she  used  to  feel  in  those  old,  old  days  at  the  same 
sound.  A  feeling  of  self-reproach  chilled  her  voice  and  manner 
as  she  went  forward  to  the  door  and  spoke  to  him.  He  follow 
ed  her  into  the  room  and  sat  down  at  the  table,  holding  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  and  waiting  for  her  to  say  why  she  had  called  him. 

"  You  find  my  father  weak,  I  fear,  to-night  ?"  she  said,  dread 
ing  to  come  to  what  she  had  in  mind. 


SUSPICIONS.  273 

"  Why,  no ;  not  particularly.  I  cannot  see  that  he  loses 
strength,  though  these  little  attacks  depress  him  very  much." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  always  fear  I  cannot 
judge." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Christine  went  on,  with  an  effort, 
and  abruptly  :  "Dr.  Catherwood,  is  this  thing  to  go  on  ?  Julian 
has  not  been  home  since  yesterday." 

Dr.  Catherwood  looked  up  thoughtfully.  "  I  do  not  see  any 
help  for  its  going  on.  I  have  weighed  a  great  many  plans  in 
my  mind,  and  I  do  not  find  that  any  of  them  will  answer.  The 
evil  is  in  the  «hild.  To  send  him  away  will  only  be  to  give 
him  a  larger  theatre ;  to  put  him  under  stricter  rule  at  home, 
will  only  serve  to  add  fresh  stimulus  to  his  vicious  determination. 
The  only  hope  for  him,  it  seems  to  me,  is  to  guard  him  from 
any  open  and  notorious  disgrace,  and  to  act  as  if  there  were 
something  good  in  him  that  had  not  been  brought  out.  I 
need  not  say,  do  not  lose  your  faitli  in  him ;  you  will  cherish 
a  spark  of  that,  I  know,  long  beyond  any  other  being.  But 
his  ruin  is  accomplished  when  that  dies ;  many  a  man  has 
been  saved  by  the  faith  of  some  woman  in  him,  which  has  sur 
vived  his  evil  life  and  at  last  revived  his  own.  It  is,  it  has  long 
been,  my  care  to  save  the  boy  from  disgrace  before  the  world ; 
it  lies  with  you  to  keep  in  his  sight  the  fact  that  there  is  purity 
and  affection  for  him  in  his  home.  We  can  do  nothing  more 
for  him  that  I  can  see.  Cease  to  perplex  yourself  about  his 
whereabouts.  You  know  I  am  never  ignorant  of  them.  I 
know  where  he  is  to-night ;  where  he  has  been  since  yesterday. 
My  eye  is  never  off  him.  His  personal  safety  I  can  satisfy  you 
of;  of  his  moral  safety  you  can  judge  as  well  as  I." 

"  It  is  my  only  relief  to  know  this,"  said  Christine,  the  tears 
swimming  for  a  moment  in  her  eyes.  "  You  may  think  me 
childish  to  have  doubted  it  for  an  instant,  and  required  re 
assurance.  But  something  has  come  to  my  knowledge  that  has 
given  me  alarm.  Did  you  know  Harry  Gilmore  had  come  back  ?" 

12* 


274  SUSPICIONS. 

"No,"  said  her  companion.  "How  have  you  ascertained 
this  ?" 

"  By  a  note  that  Julian  carelessly  mislaid,  and  the  idea  of 
his  being  here  would  have  given  me  uneasiness  enough  if  the 
note  had  not  been  what  it  is." 

She  took  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper  from  her  work-box  and 
gave  it  to  Dr.  Catherwood,  who  read  it  with  a  thoughtful  face. 
Christine  watched  him  anxiously  ;  she  might  have  saved  her 
self  the  trouble ;  nothing  that  Dr.  Catherwood  chose  to  conceal 
ever  expressed  itself  upon  his  features.  He  chose  to  conceal 
the  alarm  that  her  announcement  gave  him,  and  that  the  read 
ing  of  the  note  increased  ;  and  Christine  only  saw  him  serious 
and  deliberate,  as  he  always  was  when  he  talked  of  Julian. 

But  there  was  cause  for  uneasiness  to-night;  Harry  Gilmore, 
sent  off  a  year  ago  on  some  suspicion  of  his  honesty,  was  here 
again — recalled  evidently  by  Julian,  as  the  note  seemed  to  indi 
cate.  Dr.  Catherwood  had  always  felt  that  there  was  more 
that  he  was  glad  not  to  know  in  that  entanglement  of  Harry's. 
He  had  done  all  he  could  to  hush  the  matter  up,  and  to  get 
Harry  quietly  away ;  he  felt  that  all  the  disgrace  was  not  light 
ing  where  it  was  deserved ;  the  miller's  boy  was  again  shielding 
his  more  fortunate  accomplice.  But  what  could  he  do  ?  It 
was  not  rendering  justice  to  Harry  to  ruin  Julian,  too;  and  by 
quieting  the  matter,  even  at  a  heavy  expense  to  himself,  he  was 
saving  Harry  from  the  punishment  of  law.  But  here  was  the 
young  reprobate  returned — to  be  the  keener  Julian's  tool  again, 
no  doubt.  What  did  it  mean  ?  There  was  no  time  to  lose. 
Dr.  Catherwood  rose,  and  trying  to  disguise  his  impatience  to 
be  away,  was  saying  good-night  to  his  companion  with  an 
unhurried  manner,  when  the  gate  opened  and  Julian's  quick 
light  step  ran  up  to  the  piazza.  He  glanced  in  at  the  half- 
open  window,  paused,  and  then  entering  the  hall-door,  came 
resolutely  into  the  parlor.  Christine  felt  amazed.  This  was 
so  different  from  his  ordinary  way  of  skulking  up  to  his  own 


SUSPICIONS.  275 

room  without  a  word  to  any  one,  when  he  had  stayed  away  a 
length  of  time  that  challenged  comment. 

He  looked  very  pale,  and  his  voice  was  not  quite  steady 
when  he  spoke,  though  his  manner  was  an  effort  at  more  non 
chalance  than  ordinary.  He  was  haggard,  and  his  dress  was 
careless  ;  Christine  felt  the  repugnance  that  the  sight  of  him 
always  now  called  forth,  succeeded  by  the  instinctive  yearning 
and  pity  that  no  change  in  him  could  overpower.  Dr.  Gather- 
wood  addressed  him  simply  and  commonplacely,  with  not  very 
much  kindness  in  his  tone  and  with  some  latent  authority. 
Julian  showed  ordinarily  very  little  of  the  bully  in  Dr.  Gather- 
wood's  presence,  but  to-night  he  made  a  faint  effort  at  it.  He 
threw  himself  upon  a  sofa,  and  passing  his  hand  through  his 
still  beautiful  golden  hair,  curling  short  upon  his  forehead, 
exclaimed : 

"  I'm  tired  beyond  anything  I  ever  felt.  I've  been  off  all 
day  trouting  in  the  brooks  back  of  Negley's  farm,  a  good  eight 
miles'  tramp  there  before  sunrise  and  back  since  dark.  Rosa 
went  with  me ;  I  stayed  all  night  with  him  to  have  our  tackle 
ready  and  be  off  betimes." 

"  Well,  and  what  luck  had  you  ?" 

Dr.  Catherwood's  tone  had  nothing  exactly  sceptical  in  it, 
but  it  had  the  effect  of  disconcerting  Julian  very  much.  He 
changed  color,  caught  his  breath,  looked  down,  and  tried  to 
answer  with  indifference. 

"  Rather  poor  luck,  I'm  afraid ;  that  is,  I  think,  I — I — 
should  call  it  poor.  I  gave  Ross  the  fish  ;  I  didn't  bring  any 
home." 

It  was  so  unusual  for  Julian  to  give  any  account  of  himself, 
that  Christine  listened  in  surprise,  sharing  in  Dr.  Catherwood's 
suspicions,  and  yet  half-angry  with  him  for  confusing  and  dis 
concerting  the  boy  so.  Dr.  Catherwood's  manner  to  him 
latterly  had  provoked  her,  though  she  felt  fully  the  necessity 
of  his  knowing:  there  was  some  one  he  could  not  deceive.  In 


276  SUSPICIONS. 

this  trying  position  Dr.  Catherwood  had  consented  to  stand  to 
him,  his  hated  mentor,  his  keen-eyed  and  uncompromising 
judge  ;  interfering  where  it  seemed  he  had  no  business  to  inter 
fere,  and  detested  in  proportion  as  his  authority  was  disputed. 
Christine  ought  to  have  felt,  and  did  feel  grateful,  but  she  often 
found  herself  feeling  that  he  Avas  hard  on  Julian — that  no  one 
had  any  business  to  suspect — what  she  knew  but  too  well.  It 
was  the  true  mother  instinct ;  how  she  came  by  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  explain. 

When  Julian  next  spoke,  it  was  with  a  nervous  desire  to 
break  the  silence,  and  further  to  establish  his  whereabouts 
through  the  day  -and  night  just  past.  Dr.  Catherwood  only 
listened,  without  a  word  of  comment,  and  after  a  moment 
turned  to  go,  bidding  good-night  to  Christine,  and  saying  to 
Julian  as  he  passed  him,  "  Come  to  my  office  about  ten  to 
morrow  morning,  will  you  ?  I  would  like  to  see  you  a  few 
moments." 

Julian  winced  at  the  invitation,  but  did  not  dare  to  offer  any 
dissent  from  it;  he  said  he  would  come,  and  then  after  Dr. 
Catherwood  had  left  the  house,  threw  himself  back  again  on  the 
sofa,  and  with  a  smothered  passion  begged  Christine  to  tell 
him  what  right  that  man  had  to  order  him  about  to  please 
himself. 

"I  did  not  know  he  did  order  you  about,"  said  Christine, 
coldly,  angry  now  at  Julian  for  his  disrespect  to  Dr.  Cather 
wood. 

"  Didn't  he  order  me  to  be  at  his  office  to-morrow  at  ten 
o'clock?"  he  said,  impatiently — "and  don't  he  give  me  as  many 
orders  in  the  course  of  a  month  as  if  I  were  his  slave  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  obey  them,  then  ?"  asked  Christine,  abruptly, 
looking  at  him  steadily. 

He  uttered  a  half-inaudible  oath,  and  walked  impatiently  about 
the  room. 

"  By  heavens,  he'll  find  I'll  not  do  it  much  longer !"  he  mut- 


SUSPICIONS.  277 

tercd  ;  "  to-morrow's  the  last  day  he'll  have  me  dancing  attend 
ance  on  him  at  his  office,  the — the — " 

"  Julian,  no  more  of  that,"  said  Christine,  with  a  manner  of 
determination.  "  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  you  owe  to 
Dr.  Catherwood,  and  though  at  heart  you  are  ungrateful,  at 
least  you  shall  be  outwardly  respectful  before  me  and  in  this 
house,  where  from  a  child  he  has  watched  over  you  and  cared 
for  you  as  no  one  but  the  best  friend  could  have  done.  I  firmly 
believe  you  would  never  have  come  out  of  some  of  those  terrible 
illnesses,  Julian,  but  for  him." 

"  I  wish  I  never  had  come  out  of  them,"  cried  Julian,  with  a 
momentary  spasm  of  some  strong  remorse  as  he  plunged  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  shook  all  over.  "  I  wish  to  heaven  he 
had  let  me  die." 

"  Julian,  for  your  poor  mother's  sake " 

"  What  do  I  care  for  my  poor  mother  !  I  owe  it  to  her  that  I 
was  born,  and  to  him  that  I  am  not  dead.  A  curse  upon  them 
both " 

"  Julian  !  "  exclaimed  Christine  with  a  shudder,  sinking  back 
and  covering  her  face. 

The  boy  gave  a  contemptuous  laugh  as  he  raised  his  head, 
and  shaking  back  his  curls,  strode  across  the  room.  "Does 
that  shock  you  so !  Why,  that  gentleman  in  the  Old  Testa 
ment  that  we  hear  so  much  about  when  we  go  to  church  like 
good  children  to  be  told  about  our  duty,  used  to  curse  right 
and  left  about  the  day  that  he  was  born,  and  the  people  that 
had  anything  to  do  with  his  coming  into  the  world.  I  used  to 
think  it  rather  queerish  when  I  was  a  little  fellow,  but  since 
I've  come  to  man's  estate  I  don't  wonder  half  so  much  at  Job's 
breach  of  the  commandment.  Zounds !"  he  continued,  in  a 
lighter  tone,  "  but  I  feel  like  swearing  roundly  every  morning 
when  the  time  comes  to  get  up,  and  every  night  when  there's 
no  way  of  getting  off  from  going  to  bed.  It's  all  a  deuced 
bore,  Christine.  Where  shall  I  find  a  candle  ? " 


278  SUSPICIONS. 

Christine  did  not  look  up  or  speak  to  him.  He  glanced  back 
at  her  a  little  anxiously  as  he  left  the  room,  and  paused  when 
half  across  the  hall,  evidencing  an  intention  of  going  back  to 
counteract  the  serious  impression  that  his  first  passionate  words 
had  made  upon  her.  His  face  grew  more  haggard  when  he 
was  out  of  the  sight  of  any  one;  he  looked,  as  he  stood  alone 
in  the  hall  with  the  candle  in  his  hand,  debating  whether  he 
should  go  back  and  undo  the  mischief  he  had  done  himself  by 
his  burst  of  remorse,  like  a  beautiful  fallen  spirit — his  beauty 
was  so  great,  its  marring  so  dark  and  awful.  The  cunning  and 
dangerous  expression  of  his  eyes,  the  worn  and  anxious  lines 
about  his  mouth,  could  not  disguise  his  youth ;  his  skin  was 
exquisitely  fair,  his  features  perfect  in  their  outline,  his  hair 
was  like  a  golden  glory  round  his  head. 

"  Shall  I  go  back,"  he  said  to  himself,  glancing  in  stealthily 
to  the  room  where  Christine  sat  motionless,  "  and  risk  over 
doing  it,  and  putting  it  into  her  head  that  I  am  frightened  at 
letting  myself  out  so  ?  She  is  so  terribly  acute  there's  no 
getting  ahead  of  her  at  an  ordinary  pace.  No ;  I'd  better  let 
it  go  and  trust  that  she'll  forget  it.  Fool !  I'd  give  my  head 
if  I  had  held  my  tongue." 

And  with  another  dissatisfied  glance  back,  he  went  slowly  up 
the  stairs  and  shut  himself  into  his  rooms. 


UARKY    DOES    NOT    COME    HOME.  279 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

HARRY  DOES  NOT  COME  HOME. 

"  If  the  stone  strikes  against  the  earthen  jar,  woe  to  the  jar ;  and  if  the  jar  strik>  s 
against  the  stone,  woe  not  the  less  to  the  jar." 

SPANISH  PROVERB. 

PHCEUE  GILMORE  had  sat  waiting  hour  after  hour  that  same 
night  for  Harry,  with  feelings  not  unlike  Christine's  as  she  sat 
waiting  hour  after  hour  for  Julian.  Phoebe's  home  was  no 

O 

longer  the  cottage  by  the  mill-dam  where  the  vines  shut  out 
the  sunlight  from  the  windows,  and  the  rush  of  the  water  cooled 
the  air  and  soothed  the  ear,  but  the  old  tumble-down  house 
next  the  blacksmith's,  just  beyond  the  town,  where  Old  Hun 
dred  had  spent  his  fifty  honest  and  contented  years.  It  had 
grown  more  tumble-down  and  rickety  since  Phoebe  had  come 
into  it.  No  one  had  hired  the  shed  ;  Old  Hundred's  custom  had 
gone  to  smiths  more  in  the  town,  and  no  one  was  found  to  lease 
or  purchase  the  good-will  and  fixtures  of  the  undesirable  place. 
The  old  man  had  left  no  will ;  his  little  property  had  been  divided 
among  his  "  heirs,"  and  all  that  was  left  as  Harry's  portion 
was  an  interest  in  this  old  house,  for  which  a  purchaser  had 
not  been  found,  and  in  which  Phoebe  had  permission  to  live  till 
one  turned  up.  It  was  a  wretched,  starving  life  she  led,  work 
ing  hard  with  her  needle,  while  Harry  was  loafing  shiftlessly 
about  the  town.  Phoebe  had  given  up  the  Methodists,  and 
they  said  the  hand  of  Providence  was  in  her  troubles.  She 
had  not  come  back  to  the  Church,  and  the  Church  people  said 
she  could  not  have  expected  any  different  result.  Her  better 
neighbors  were  giving  her  up,  and  her  poorer  ones  were  begin- 


280  HARRY   DOES   NOT   COME    HOME. 

ning  to  hold  themselves  above  her,  and  she  felt  every  man's 
hand  against  her  and  her  boy.  The  worldly  people  told  her 
she  had  ruined  him  by  the  way  she  had  brought  him  up,  and 
the  pious  people  told  her  she  would  have  his  perdition  on  her 
soul  for  ever  ;  and  she  despised  and  defied  them  all,  and  yearned 
and  groaned  in  secret  over  the  lad,  and  cursed  the  day  in 
which  he  and  she  were  born. 

Yes,  she  had  ruined  him;  yes,  if  he  were  in  eternal  peril, 
she  alone  would  be  held  to  answer  for  it.  She  knew  it,  and 
she  defied  the  wrath  of  heaven  and  the  scorn  of  men.  Harry 
hated  his  home ;  he  shrank  from  his  mother's  alternate  upbraid- 
ings  and  fierce,  tiger-like  bursts  of  caressing  and  remorse.  He 
felt  the  pinching  poverty  and  the  continual  gloom  too  oppressive 
for  his  only  half-deadened  conscience,  and  the  sight  of  his 
mother's  trouble  too  painful  for  his  tender  heart;  for  Harry 
had  a  tender  heart,  and  so  went  all  the  farther  and  surer 
wrong  when  once  he  tried  to  smother  it  and  get  the  upper 
hand  with  it. 

Julian  Upham  had  been  his  continual  associate  till  the  trou 
ble  a  year  before,  when  all  had  seemed  to  turn  away  from  him 
in  suspicion,  and  when  the  only  course  left  for  him  was  to  fly 
from  suspicion  and  discovery  and  punishment.  A  bitter  and  re 
vengeful  hearthis  mother  had  borne  through  the  long  and  anxious 
year  that  he  had  been  away — where,  she  knew  not ;  whether 
living  or  dead  she  could  only  guess ;  while  Julian  Upham, 
equal,  she  could  have  sworn,  in  error  and  in  danger,  was  living 
unharmed  and  unsuspected  in  the  town  where  her  boy  dared 
not  show  his  face.  Once  or  twice,  when  Julian  had  looked  out 
of  some  tavern-haunt  where  Harry  had  spent  his  time  before 
he  went  away,  through  the  darkness  of  the  night  he  had  caught 
sight  of  her  sullen,  pallid  face  peering  in,  her  threatening  eyes  on 
him,  and  he  had  shuddered  and  drawn  back,  and  tried  to  forget 
the  sight. 

But  now  Harry  had  come  back  as  stealthily  as  he  had  gone 


HAEEY   DOES   NOT   COME   HOME.  281 

away,  and  he  was  alive  and  unchanged,  except  that  he  seemed 
older  and  had  a  more  sullen  and  hang-dog  look.  She  did  not 
dare  to  ask  what  life  he  had  been  leading.  She  only  felt,  he 
was  in  her  arms  again ;  his  brown  hair  soft  and  silky  to  her 
touch,  his  lips  red  and  warm,  as  she  hung  over  him  stealthily 
while  he  slept. 

He  had  been  home  two  days  and  nights ;  during  the 
first  day  he  had  hung  about  the  house;  the  night  he  had 
spent  away ;  the  day  again  at  home,  and  about  twilight  he  had 
gone  out;  and  now  she  sat  late  into  the  night  watching  for  him, 
and  wondering  if  he  would  come  back.  The  outskirt  of  this 
little  town  was  always  dull  and  silent.  To-night's  stillness  was 
an  awful  oppression  to  the  lonely  woman ;  she  knew  she  could 
have  heard  a  footstep  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off  on  the  flagged 
walk  that  led  from  the  town  to  the  end  of  the  street  on  which 
the  house  was  situated.  Her  ear  was  strained  to  the  uttermost 
to  catch  the  lightest  sound  ;  no  one  passed  along  the  walk — 
no  vehicle  rolled  through  the  street ;  from  eight  until  eleven 
there  was  not  the  sign  of  any  living  presence  in  the  dreary 
suburb. 

Phoebe  sat  on  a  low  seat  by  the  blackened  and  cold  hearth, 
rocking  herself  slowly  backward  and  forward  in  her  chair — now 
stopping  to  listen,  now  rocking  to  break  the  silence.  She  was 
not  a  woman  to  give  way  to  womanish  and  superstitious  fancies  ; 
but  there  was  one  that  haunted  her  nightly  in  this  desolate  abode, 
and  through  all  the  wakeful,  remorseful  nights  that  she  had 
passed  in  it,  it  had  been  her  constant  torture.  There  was  a 
door  leading  out  of  the  kitchen,  now  the  only  habitable  room 
the  house  contained,  a  door  closed  and  padlocked — that  led  into 
the  old  blacksmith's  shed.  Through  that  door  there  came 
nightly  the  dull,  regular  sound  of  strokes  upon  the  anvil ;  mo 
notonous  and  smothered,  as  if  from  within  a  deep  and  sand- 
choked  cave ;  all  night  long  she  heard  them  in  the  intervals  of 
sleep.  She  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  the  sound  that  she 


282  HARRY  DOES  NOT  COME  HOME. 

had  ceased  to  feel  the  throb  of  terror  it  had  caused  at  first, 
only  a  chill  as  of  a  cold  wind  creeping  across  her,  and  she 
would  fall  asleep  again.  But  this  night  she  was  overwrought 
and  unnerved  ;  she  felt  as  if  the  muffled  beat  upon  the  anvil  in 
the  low,  dark,  old  shed  would  drive  her  mad  ;  she  rocked  her 
chair  heavily  upon  the  bare  and  sounding  floor  to  drown  it,  bat 
it  was  not  drowned.  The  roar  of  cannon  at  her  side  would  not 
have  drowned  it.  It  seemed  to  have  its  own  place  in  the 
changing  currents  of  the  air,  and  to  sound  on  in  her  ear  un 
ceasingly.  No  wonder  that  her  hair  was  white  and  her  eyes 
were  wild  with  such  nights  following  such  days  as  hers! 

She  pressed  her  hands  tight  against  her  temples  and  pushed 
back  the  hair,  groaning  aloud  in  the  intolerable  agony  of  her  soul. 
Oh,  for  one  touch  of  Harry's  living  hand — one  sight  of  breathing 
flesh  and  blood  !  Would  he  never  come  !  There  was  no  clock 
to  tell  the  hours  in  that  miserable  home;  it  was  very  lato,  she 
knew,  by  the  terrible  length  of  time  that  had  passed  since  dark 
came  on.  She  drew  her  apron  over  her  head  and  went  out  of 
the  house  down  to  the  path  ;  there  was  no  gate,  and  the  fence 
had  long  since  fallen  to  decay.  She  stood  leaning  against  an 
old  tree-stump  beside  the  path  and  listened.  The  night  was 
dark  and  still ;  not  a  breath  of  air  stirred ;  not  a  star  gleamed 
in  the  sky.  Presently  she  heard  the  town  clock  strike — one. 
Distant  as  it  was,  she  heard  it  with  all  distinctness,  the  night 
was  so  very  still.  Then  Harry  would  not  be  back  ;  she  shivered 
and  turned  again  into  the  house.  Would  he  come  back  at  all  ? 
A  sudden  terror  seized  her.  She  remembered  he  had  said  a 
gruff"  good-night,  and  had  come  back  and  made  some  clumsy 
attempt  at  a  caress  as  he  went  away  in  the  twilight. 

She  seized  the  flickering  tallow  candle  and  hurried  up  into 
the  loft  where  he  had  slept.  The  old  clothes  which  he  had 
worn,  and  which  were  the  only  ones  she  knew  of  his  having, 
were  lying  on  the  floor,  kicked  into  a  corner,  shoes  and  hat  and 
all.  He  had  gone  out  in  some  different  suit  which  she  had  not 


HAEKY  DOES  NOT  COME  HOME.  283 

noticed  in  the  dark.  Every  article  that  he  had  brought  with 
him — a  pistol,  a  little  case  of  tools,  a  dingy  wallet  stuffed  with 
papers — all  of  which  he  had  kept  since  he  returned  in  a  chest 
beside  his  bed,  were  gone.  The  conviction  rushed  upon  her  mind 
— Harry  was  not  coming  back.  She  set  down  the  candle  for  a 
moment  and  tried  to  collect  herself  and  understand  what  it  all 
meant.  It  meant — Harry  was  again  the  accomplice  in  some 
evil  deed;  again  the  tool  of  more  wicked  and  artful  brains 
than  his ;  again  placed  in  peril  of  his  life,  perhaps ;  again  lost 
to  her  touch,  to  her  sight,  for  years — for  years ! — perhaps  for 
ever.  The  craving,  terrible  mother-love  burst  forth  in  a  cry  of 
anguish ;  the  thought  of  separation  from  her  child  was  like  a 
mortal  pang. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  rushed  down,  passed  the  old  shed 
where. the  beat  upon  the  anvil  was  sounding  ceaselessly,  and 
out  into  the  night,  towards  the  silent,  sleeping  town. 


284  BY  JULIAN'S  BEDSIDE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

BY  JULIAN'S  BEDSIDE. 

u  O  holy  night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear, 

"What  man  has  borne  before ! 
Thou  layest  thy  fingers  on  the  lips  of  care, 
And  they  complain  no  more." 

LONGFELLOW. 

CHRISTINE  was  sitting  half-undressed  in  her  own  room,  with 
her  arm  upon  the  window-sill,  her  hair  loose  upon  her  shoulders, 
a  white  wrapper  thrown  about  her.  The  light  was  burning 
low  upon  the  table  ;  the  window  was  open  to  the  dark,  still 
night.  Her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears ;  her  attitude  expressed 
languor  and  weariness.  Two  hours  had  passed  since  she  came 
to  her  room,  and  yet  she  had  not  gone  to  bed.  She  heard  the 
town  clock  strike  one,  and  she  half-arose  and  then  sank  wearily 
back  again  ;  and  leaning  her  forehead  on  her  crossed  arms  on 
the  window-sill,  remained  motionless  for  half  an  hour. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  sudden  opening  of  the  gate,  the 
sound  of  a  quick  step  on  the  walk,  a  sharp  blow  on  the 
knocker.  Fortunately,  the  knocker  was  a  stiff  affair  and  did 
not  yield  easily  to  the  hand  ;  it  came  down  with  a  slow,  sullen 
noise  that  would  not  have  waked  the  lightest  sleeper. 

Christine  sprang  up,  fearing  she  knew  not  what,  and  taking 
the  candle  in  her  hand  hurried  down  the  stairs.  A  natural 
feeling  of  fear  would  have  made  her  hesitate  before  she  slid 
back  the  bolt,  but  that  she  longed  to  prevent  a  second  knock, 
which  would  perhaps  have  roused  her  father,  whose  nights 
were  most  disturbed  and  wakeful  now.  She  pushed  back  the 
bolt,  turned  the  key,  and  with  a  choking  sense  of  apprehen- 


BY  JULIAN'S  BEDSIDE.  285 

sion,  opened  the  door  a  little  way.  It  was  pushed  strongly 
from  without;  Christine  retreated  several  steps,  and  held  the 
candle  up  before  she  recognised,  in  the  haggard  woman  in  the 
door-way,  the  once  familiar  face  of  Phoebe  Gilmore. 

Her  eyes  were  sullen  and  flaming,  her  dress  was  pitiably 
poor,  and  her  fine  black  hair  had  turned  to  grey  since  Chris 
tine  had  seen  her  last.  She  had  some  fierce  words  on  her  lips" 
as  she  came  in  at  the  door,  but  the  sight  of  Christine  checked 
her  for  an  instant,  but  only  for  an  instant. 

"  I  have  come  for  ray  boy,"  she  said,  fiercely.  "  I  know  the 
place  to  come  for  him  ;  I  have  held  my  tongue  for  a  year  or 
more.  I  am  not  going  to  hold  it  any  longer.  Call  Julian 
down  and  tell  him  Harry  Gilmore's  mother  wants  to  see  him." 

"  I  do  not  believe  Julian  can  tell  you  anything  about  your 
boy,  Phosbe,"  said  Christine,  retreating  another  step ;  for  the 
woman's  manner  was  frightful  enough.  "  Come  in  and  tell  me 

O  O 

why  you  think  he  can." 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  why  I  think  he  can.  You  know 
whose  money  hushed  things  up  and  sent  the  boy  away.  You 
know  who  always  hatches  up  the  mischief,  and  who  always 
bears  the  blame.  It's  gone  on  long  enough,  my  delicate  young 
woman.  You're  very  sweet  and  pretty,  and  very  pious,  people 
say.  But  it's  gone  on  long  enough.  Because  you  are  the 
minister's  daughter  isn't  a  reason  that  you  should  be  always 
kept  from  learning  ugly  words.  Ministers  are  all  very  well  in 
their  way,  but  if  they  don't  look  after  their  sons  and  daughters 
they  must  bear  the  consequences  of  it.  I'm  a  poor  woman,  and 
I  don't  go  to  church  and  am  not  much  thought  of  by  you  pious 
people ;  but  I've  got  a  right  to  be  heard,  and  the  law  will  hear 
me  if  you  won't.  The  law,  my  nice  young  lady,  the  law  !  And 
Julian  Upham  shall  answer  for  his  work  some  time  before  he's 
an  old  man,  depend  upon  it.  Some  time  before  he's  a  much 
older  man  than  he  is  now.  Call  him  down,  for  I  am  not  going 
away  without  a  sight  of  him." 


286  BY  JULIAN'S  BEDSIDE. 

"  Listen,"  said  Christine,  in  a  quiet  voice.  "  Julian  is  asleep. 
I  do  not  want  to  wake  him ;  I  do  not  want  to  wake  my  father. 
Come  in  the  morning.  You  can  see  him  then." 

"Hist,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  voice  that  made  Christine 
shudder.  "  You  are  very  clever,  but  I  am  clever,  too ;  I  know 
as  well  as  you  do  that  Julian  is  not  in  the  house.  That  is  what 
I  came  to  know.  That  is  what  I  mean  to  swear  before  the 
magistrate  to-morrow." 

"  He  is  in  the  house,"  said  Christine,  with  a  firmness  that 
startled  her.  "  He  has  been  in  it  several  hours." 

"  Can  you  swear  that  ?"  said  her  companion,  tauntingly. 

"I  can  swear  that,"  she  returned,  unmoved. 

"  Show  him  to  me  or  I  can  swear  you  could  not." 

"  I  shall  not  show  him  to  you,"  she  said,  with  deliberation, 
"but  upon  one  condition.  That  you  go  noiselessly  up  with  me 
to  the  door  of  his  room,  look  at  him  without  awakening  him, 
and  go  away  without  disturbing  any  member  of  the  house.  If 
you  promise  this  you  can  go  up  with  me  now." 

"I  promise,"  said  the  woman,  after  a  moment  of  silence. 

Christine  felt  a  shiver  as  she  took  up  the  candle  from  the 
hall-table  and  went  towards  the  stairs,  the  woman  following 
closely.  She  had  long  felt  that  Pho?be  was  half  insane ;  her 
words  and  looks  to-night  confirmed  her  in  the  belief  that  her 
mind  had  been  shattered  by  her  dreadful  trials.  To  be  going 
stealthily  through  a  dark  and  silent  house  at  the  dead  hour  of 
night,  with  no  help  at  hand,  and  with  a  fierce  and  half-crazed 
enemy  at  her  back,  was  not  a  thing  that  all  women  could 
have  done  composedly.  Christine  was  very  pale,  and  the  hand 
that  held  the  candle  shook  almost  imperceptibly ;  but  her  voice 
was  firm  and  her  step  deliberate. 

"You  had  better  take  off  your  shoes,"  she  said,  pausing 
before  they  reached  the  upper  landing.  "  They  make  a  noise, 
and  I  do  not  want  to  wake  my  father." 

The  woman  stooped  and  slipped  off  her  loose  heavy  shoes ; 


BY  JULIAN'S  BEDSIDE.  287 

this  gave  Christine  an  advantage ;  it  gave  her  an  excuse  to 
pause  and  get  her  companion  beside  her,  which  was  much  more 
comfortable  than  having  her  out  of  sight — and  carrying  the  shoes 
kept  one  of  the  hands  employed,  which  Christine's  active  fancy 
was  imagining  continually  in  a  tight  grasp  around  her  throat. 
The  corridor  was  long  and  dark,  and  the  candle  flickered  and 
gave  but  a  dim,  faint  light;  at  the  door  of  Julian's  room  Chris 
tine  paused  again,  and  said  : 

"  Remember  your  promise  ;  you  are  not  to  speak  nor  wake 
him,  nor  go  to  the  bed ;  only  to  look  at  him,  and  then  go 
away." 

"  I  remember,"  said  the  woman,  doggedly ;  and  Christine, 
with  a  thousand  misgivings,  softly  turned  the  handle  of  the 
door  and  entered. 

Phoebe  followed  her  closely ;  Christine  paused  a  few  feet 
from  the  bed,  and  laying  her  hand  on  the  woman's  arm  to  keep 
her  back,  held  the  candle  so  that  the  light  fell  full  upon  the 
bed.  It  was  a  pretty  bed,  with  delicate  white  coverings,  and 
pillows  with  wide  embroidered  trimmings.  Upon  the  wall 
above  hung  a  picture,  bought  for  its  resemblance  to  Helena ; 
the  face  haughty,  coquettish,  and  defiant — a  face  that  it  was 
difficult  to  think  of  as  a  mother's,  bending  over  a  cradle,  or 
smiling  down  upon  a  waking  baby.  The  furniture  of  the  room 
was  graceful,  and  showed  that  the  boy  had  had  all  loving  arts 
employed  to  make  him  pleased  at  home.  The  shelves  were 
tilled  with  books ;  there  were  easy  chairs,  and  a  sofa  with  a 
beautiful  embroidered  cushion.  Phoebe  thought  bitterly  of  the 
loft  where  Harry  flung  himself  down  to  sleep  at  night,  or  where 
in  dangerous  times  he  hid  himself  by  day  ;  and  as  her  eyes 
fell  upon  the  boy  fast  asleep  upon  the  soft,  luxurious  bed,  with 
his  gold-colored  hair  upon  the  fair  white  pillow,  and  his  grace 
ful  arm  flung  over  the  dainty  coverlet,  there  passed  an  expression 
across  her  face  which  it  was  well  her  companion  did  not  see. 

Christine  was  looking  at  him  with  a  yearning  tenderness; 


288  BY  JULIAN'S  BEDSIDE. 

he  was  so  beautiful  when  he  slept,  where  could  the  vicious 
and  evil  temper  be  that  made  her  life  so  miserable  ! 

There  was  a  perfect  silence ;  could  the  boy  have  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  up,  what  a  strange  sight  would  have  met 
them  !  His  beautiful  young  aunt  with  her  fair  unbound  hair, 
gazing  at  him  with  tender  eyes,  and  holding  back  the  strange, 
haggard,  evil-eyed  woman,  whose  gaze  seemed  to  devour  him. 
Unconscious  of  what  passed  around  him,  he  slept  on  and  never 
knew  the  love  and  the  revenge  that  had  watched  above  his 
bed  ;  and  because  he  did  not  see  it  he  did  not  believe  in  it — one 
child  among  many  who  will  not  believe  in  the  guardianship 
they  do  not  see. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  ?"  Christine  whispered  low,  as  her  com 
panion  drew  a  long  deep  breath  and  moved  back  a  step.  Her 
clenched  hand  relaxed  as  Christine  spoke. 

"Yes,  I  am  satisfied,"  she  said,  going  towards  the  door, 
stopping  to  glance  back  at  the  sleeper  once  before  she  reached 
it.  She  went  before  Christine  through  the  hall  and  down  the 
stairs  with  a  quick,  excited  tread;  and  stopping  to  put  on  her 
shoes  as  she  reached  the  hall-door,  drew  her  shawl  around  her 
and  went  out,  without  a  word  or  a  look  towards  her  conductor. 

Christine  bolted  the  door  after  her  with  a  sensation  of  pro 
found  relief,  and  hurried  through  the  house  to  secure  all  the 
other  fastenings  before  she  went  to  her  own  room  to  ponder 
over  the  strange  events  of  the  night,  and  to  apprehend  a  thou 
sand  evils  coming  in  their  train. 


A   KOBBEKY.  289 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

A    ROBBERY. 
"  Qui  se  oouche  avec  des  chiens,  se  leve  avec  Jes  puces." 

A  NEW  excitement  filled  the  town  of on  the  next  day  ;  an 

excitement  that  struck  a  chill  to  Christine's  very  heart,  and 
that  made  Dr.  Catherwood  look  darker  and  more  perplexed 
than  ever.  The  bank  had  been  robbed ;  a  wholesale  and 
tremendous  robbery.  Raymond  Clybourne,  recently  made  a 
teller  in  it,  had  disappeared ;  suspicion,  of  course,  fastened  itself 
upon  him,  but  it  was  evident  the  robbery  was  the  work  of  two 
or  three  at  least.  All  sorts  of  conjectures  were  rife,  and  the 
testimony  of  more  than  one  person,  that  young  Gilmore  had 
been  seen  about  the  place  within  a  day  or  two,  had  directed 
inquiry  towards  him. 

For  three  days  nothing  else  was  talked  of;  every  possible 
step  was  taken  to  apprehend  the  suspected  parties.  No  trace 
of  them  could  be  discovered.  Phoebe  Gilmore  was  cross- 
examined  as  to  the  return  and  departure  of  her  son.  The  un 
happy  woman  was  maddened  to  find  every  word  she  said  was 
forging  chains  for  Harry.  She  entered  an  accusation  against 
Julian,  and  reiterated  her  conviction  that  in  both  cases  of  her 
son's  delinquency  he  had  been  an  accomplice  and  abettor.  But 
all  this  passed  for  the  bitter  spleen  of  a  half-crazed. mother ;  the 
ancient  grudge  she  bore  the  minister's  family  was  remembered, 
and  as  there  were  plenty  to  testify  to  Julian's  whereabouts  on 
the  night  of  the  robbery  and  on  the  day  preceding  it,  she 
found  herself  powerless  to  do  an  injury  where  she  so  burned  to 
do  one. 

13 


290  A    ROBBERY. 

Dr.  Catherwood  had  not  been  idle.  He  bad  bad  but  a  short 
interview  with  Julian,  but  more  than  one  with  the  directors  of 
the  bank,  in  which  he  was  a  large  stockholder.  The  Clybourne 
family  were  plunged  in  the  most  terrible  affliction ;  no  one 
dared  to  go  to  them  but  Dr.  Catherwood  :  even  Christine  was 
afraid  to  seek  Madeline  for  the  present  time. 

And  Julian — a  little  pale  and  haggard,  but  doggedly  self- 
possessed — he  went  about  his  ordinary  amusements  and  occupa 
tions;  somewhat  ostentatiously  perhaps  keeping  himself  in 
sight,  and  speculating  more  than  seemed  altogether  natural  on 
the  recent  astounding  news.  He  was  at  home  rather  more 
than  usual ;  Christine  felt  all  the  time  a  strange  and  growing 
apprehension  of  some  new  development ;  but  she  did  not  even 
define  it  to  herself.  His  occasional  caresses  made  her  shudder, 
and  then  filled  her  with  self-reproach.  What  did  she  suspect? 
He  had  always  grudged  the  half  hour  in  the  clay  which  de 
cency,  and  perhaps  policy,  had  demanded  he  should  spend  with 
his  grandfather.  The  old  man  was  sad  and  silent  always  after 
seeing  him.  He  felt  that  things  were  going  wrong ;  he  for 
bore  to  disgust  him  with  good  advice,  and  he  felt  his  inability 
to  influence  him ;  and  looking  to  Dr.  Catherwood  for  his  actual 
guidance,  he  kept  silence  and  seemed  unmoved.  But  during 
the  week  that  succeeded  the  bank  robbery,  Julian  had  gone 
often  to  the  study,  spending  a  large  part  of  his  time  at  home 
there,  and  evidently  endeavoring  to  ingratiate  himself  with  his 
grandfather.  What  progress  he  made  no  one  ever  knew ;  the 
subject  of  his  grandson  was  sealed  between  Dr.  Upham  and 
his  family. 

A  long  week  it  was  to  Christine ;  her  apprehensions  did  not 
subside ;  her  sleep  was  restless  and  broken.  One  night,  just 
eight  from  the  unhappy  one  when  Phoebe  Gilrnore  made  her 
strange  visit  to  the  Parsonage,  Christine  woke  from  her  uneasy 
slumber  with  a  start,  and  with  the  impression  that  some  noise 
had  roused  her.  But  it  was  so  vague  she  could  not  recall  its 


A    ROBBERY.  2'Jl 

nature.  For  a  long  while  she  lay  quietly,  trying  to  forget  it 
and  trying  to  sleep.  But  at  length  she  resolved  it  would  do 
no  harm  to  go  and  look  at  Julian,  and  assure  herself  that  he 
was  safe.  Many  times  within  the  last  week  she  had  gone  to 
his  room  at  night,  and  soothed  herself  by  seeing  him  innocently 
and  peacefully  asleep.  She  prepared  herself  hastily,  and  light 
ing  a  candle  went  towards  his  room.  A  painful  apprehension 
struck  her,  when,  as  she  reached  it,  the  cold  night  wind  from 
an  open  window  within  blew  out  the  newly  lighted  candle.  It 
seemed  an  interminable  time  before  she  could  relight  it  and 
come  back  to  the  room.  Shading  it  with  her  hand,  she  entered. 

A  scene  of  careless  confusion — an  empty  bed,  an  open  win 
dow  ;  Christine's  heart  died  within  her.  She  shut  the  window, 
put  the  candle  on  a  stand  beside  it,  and  sat  down.  Julian  was 
gone.  This  confirmed  her  dread  for  him.  And  yet,  perhaps, 
impatient  of  the  restraint  and  coldness  at  home,  he  had  rushed 
into  larger  liberty.  Other  boys  had  done  it  and  outlived  the 
folly.  Perhaps  he  would  return  ;  perhaps  this  was  but  for  a 
few  days'  adventure.  But  the  sack  of  his  drawers,  the  confusion 
of  his  room,  did  not  look  like  that  exactly.  Everything  of 
value  was  gone  ;  a  pair  of  richly-mounted  pistols  and  a  handsome 
dirk  that  had  been  among  his  mother's  valuables,  and  had  al 
ways  decorated  a  panel  in  his  room,  were  taken  down  ;  his 
clothes  had  evidently  been  looked  over  with  care,  and  the  best 
portion  of  them  taken.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Christine  did  not 
know  ;  he  was  gone.  Pursuit  was  vain.  Her  first  thought  was 
to  shield  him.  None  should  know  that  he  had  fled  from  her  so 
ungratefully.  With  a  heavy  heart  she  began  to  fold  up  and  re 
arrange  his  clothes.  The  servant  in  the  morning  must  not  sus 
pect  that  he  had  left  his  room  for  longer  than  the  day ;  before 
night  she  could  arrange  something  to  say  in  explanation  of  his 
absence.  It  was  a  sad  task,  indeed,  but  Christine  was  used  to 
sad  work. 

Presently  she  saw  something  that  broke  her  composure  down 


292  A   BOBBERY. 

completely.  A  little  picture  of  herself  that  she  had  given  him, 
and  that  hung  beside  his  glass,  was  gone.  lie  had  taken  it ;  he 
had  felt  a  little  love  and  a  little  tenderness  as  he  thought  of  leav 
ing  her.  Oh,  her  darling  boy,  her  poor  lost  Julian  !  With  a  burst 
of  sobs  she  flung  herself  upon  the  bed  and  pressed  her  face 
down  upon  the  pillow.  Her  heart  had  yearned  for  years  for 
some  token  that  he  loved  her — some  sign  that  his  heart  was 
human,  and  now  it  came  too  late.  Perhaps  it  was  her  fault 
that  he  was  what  he  was.  The  most  self-torturing  thoughts 
succeeded  each  other  in  her  mind — she  had  not  pursued  the 
right  method  with  him  ;  she  had  been  too  cold,  too  exacting. 
She  had  sacrificed  her  life  to  him  with  the  purest  motive,  and 
had  lost  him  by  some  involuntary  error.  What  should  she  say 
to  Helena  ?  How  should  she  answer  before  Heaven  for  this 
soul  ?  All  his  faults  were  covered  by  this  little  charity  of  ten 
derness.  She  loved  him  as  she  always  loved  him — when  asleep, 
when  absent,  or  when  ill.  She  thought  of  him  as  her  little 
son,  the  dear  charge  of  her  early  girlhood,  the  object  of  her 
prayers,  her  love,  her  solicitude,  before  any  other  object  came  to 
dispute  her  heart  with  him.  Oh,  that  was  .the  sin,  she  feared. 
She  had  kept  to  the  letter  of  her  promise,  and  had  violated 
its  whole  spirit.  Everything  seemed  changed.  Julian  was  no 
longer  the  sinner  but  the  sinned  against.  She  lay  till  dawn 
crept  faintly  in  at  the  windows,  in  an  agony  of  self-reproach 
and  misery.  The  approach  of  daylight  roused  her ;  she  arose 
and  resumed  her  task  of  putting  the  room  in  its  ordinary  shape. 
Just  as  she  had  completed  it  and  was  turning  to  leave  the 
room,  her  eye  caught  something  now  visible  in  the  pale  grey 
light,  lying  on  the  floor  under  the  dressing-glass.  She  stooped 
to  pick  it  up.  It  was  her  picture,  the  delicate  frame  crushed  in 
by  the  tread  of  a  careless  foot.  A  cold  steel  seemed  to  cut  into 
her  heart  at  that  sight.  She  dropped  the  picture  into  the  near 
est  drawer  and  turned  the  key,  and  went  out  of  the  room  feel 
ing  as  if  she  dreamed. 


A   KOBBERY.  293 

The  study  door  was  open  ;  she  glanced  into  it  as  she  passed. 
Her  father's  door  was  closed  which  communicated  with  it. 
Both  these  things  were  unusual.  She  entered  hastily,  and  went 
up  to  her  father's  private  desk ;  the  lock  was  broken,  the  con 
tents  rifled.  She  tried  hurriedly  to  restore  it  to  its  usual  look, 
adjusted  the  broken  lock,  and  thought  of  the  moment  when  her 
father  must  know  what  she  did.  She  had  no  prayer  to  say  just 
then.  She  passed  by  the  window  that  looked  into  the  church 
yard,  but  it  did  not  seem  peaceful  now,  only  cold  and  dead  and 
hopeless.  The  grey  dawn  was  breaking  into  a  cold  and  stormy 
day.  The  rain  was  beginning  to  patter  against  the  panes,  and 
the  wind  blew  in  gusts  that  shook  and  bowed  the  tender  young 
green  branches  of  the  trees.  How  could  they — how  could  the 
sweet  frail  flowers  in  the  garden  beds  below,  live  through  this 
cold  and  cruel  storm. 

She  turned  shivering  away. 


294  DE    PEOPUNDIS. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

DE  PROFUNDIS. 

"  And  cold  before  my  summer's  done, 
And  deaf  in  Nature's  general  tune, 
And  fallen  too  low  for  special  fear, 
And  here,  with  hope  no  longer  here,— 
"While  the  tears  drop,  my  days  go  on." 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 

DR.  CATBERWOOD  looked  out  from  the  window  of  his  little  par 
lor  that  morning,  as  he  heard  the  gate-latch  lifted.  A  carriage 
stood  at  the  gate,  and  a  lady  was  coming  down  the  path.  It 
was  Christine  with  a  cloak  wrapped  around  her,  bowing  her 
head  to  meet  the  storm  of  wind  and  rain  that  was  sweeping 
round  the  house.  He  hurried  out  to  the  door.  He  divined 
what  had  brought  her.  She  had  come  to  his  house  but 
twice  before — once  when  Mrs.  Sherman  brought  her  there  to 
luncheon,  that  summer  four  years  ago,  and  once  when  she  had 
been  in  some  trouble  about  the  boy.  She  always  seemed  afraid 
of  the  place,  and  looked  away  when  she  passed  it.  He  felt  a 
strange  sensation  of  satisfaction  that  she  had  had  to  come  to  it 
at  last.  He  opened  the  door,  and  taking  her  hand,  drew  her  in 
from  the  storm,  and  led  her  to  the  bright  fire  in  the  grate  of  the 
little  room. 

"  Take  off  this  wet  cloak,"  he  said.  "  This  is  a  terrible 
storm  for  June." 

"  It  is  no  matter  about  the  cloak,"  she  said,  loosening  it  a 
little  and  sinking  down  into  the  chair  he  placed  for  her  beside 
the  fire.  Her  face  was  ashy  pale,  and  the  black  shade  beneath 
her  eyes  made  them  look  larger  and  darker  than  ever.  Her 


DE   PROFUXDIS.  295 

lips  wore  livid,  and  she  seemed  so  chilled  for  a  few  moments  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  speak. 

"  Let  me  give  you  something,"  he  said,  moving  towards  the 
sideboard. 

"  No,"  she  said,  rising  and  arresting  his  hand  ;  "  there  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  me ;  I  am  only  cold.  I  came  to  tell 
you,  Julian  has  gone  away." 

"  I  am  not  surprised.     I  felt  sure  that  he  would  go." 

"  That  is  not  the  worst.  I  want  you  to  know  it  all,"  said 
Christine,  covering  her  face. 

Dr.  Gather  wood  looked  anxious  and  alarmed  as  he  l.ed  her 
back  to  her  chair  in  silence. 

"  He  has  taken  everything  from  my  father's  desk,  and  you 
must  tell  him.  for  I  cannot.  I  think  it  would  kill  me  if  I 
had  to  do  it." 

Dr.  Catherwood  grew  suddenly  pale,  as  if  the  news  had 
sickened  him.  He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  which 
was  wet  with  a  sudden  moisture,  and  turned  away  to  the 
window  for  a  moment.  Christine  did  not  look  up,  and  presently 
he  turned  back  to  her  and  said  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  no 
unusual  feeling  : 

"  Christine,  God  knows  all  about  this  boy.  You  have  done 
your  duty." 

A  low  cry  escaped  her  lips  as  if  he  had  touched  on  too 
quivering  a  chord.  But  he  knew  what  he  was  doing. 

"  You  have  given  up  everything  for  him,"  he  went  on,  "  and 
I  know  would  at  any  time  have  died  to  assure  yourself  of  his 
present  and  eternal  safety.  You  have  been  judicious.  I  have 
looked  on,  and  have  seen  all ;  you  may  rest  assured  you  have 
i'ewer  errors  of  judgment  to  regret  than  most  have  who  govern 
children.  I  have  wondered  often  at  your  great  discretion.  I 
believe  the  only  course  that  presented  a  chance  of  saving  him 
has  been  pursued.  For  his  own  sake,  for  yours,  for  my  own,  I 
have  exerted  all  my  ingenuity  to  win  him  to  a  better  life.  I 


296  DE   PROFUNDIS. 

have  failed.  You  have  failed.  I  believe  an  angel  from  heaven 
would  have  failed.  We  cannot  go  into  the  past  and  see  who  is 
responsible ;  all  that  concerns  us  is  to  know,  in  this  possible 
actual  present,  we  have  done  our  duty.  The  children  of  many 
prayers,  Christine — the  children  of  devoted  love,  of  pious 
homes,  with  mothers  and  with  fathers  watching  every  breath 
they  draw,  go  strangely  and  fatally  to  ruin  ;  from  the  time  they 
begin  to  live  drawing  surely  towards  their  evil  end.  What  it 
means  we  know  not  now,  but  we  shall  know  hereafter.  A 
few  tears,  my  poor  little  Christine,  but  no  self-reproach,  no  vain 
regrets,  no  struggling  to  solve  the  riddle  by  unjust  accusations 
and  self-condemnation.  Be  brave  as  you  have  always  been  ;  be 
wise  and  patient." 

"I  cannot  be  patient,"  she  exclaimed.  "Is  there  nothing 
more  to  do  ?  Must  we  let  him  go  without  an  effort ;  is  there 
not  a  chance  that  we  can  bring  him  back  ?" 

"  Not  one,  I  fear.  Be  reasonable,  Christine  ;  all  that  man  can 
do,  I  will,  to  find  him  and  to  bring  him  home ;  but  do  not  lay 
up  disappointment  for  yourself.  His  cunning  is  beyond  belief. 
He  will  escape  detection  and  will  yet  run  a  long  career,  it  seems 
to  me.  Of  his  personal  safety  I  think  you  may  be  reasonably 
secure.  He  is  not  one  to  risk  himself  unwisely.  Though 
you  may  not  hear  of  him,  it  is  reasonable  to  think  that  he  is 
safe." 

"  His  poor  mother !  what  shall  I  say  to  her  !"  murmured 
Christine  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  Say  to  her  that  you  have  more  than  done  your  duty  ;  that 
if  human  devotion  and  self-sacrifice  could  have  atoned  for  the 
sinful  past,  yours  would  have  atoned  for  it,  and  her  boy  would 
have  been  saved." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  with  his  face  turned  from  her. 

At  last  she  rose  and  drew  her  cloak  about  her. 

"You  will  tell  my  father?"  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes,  as  soon  as  it  becomes  necessary,"  he  answered,  in  his 


DE    PROFUNDIS.  297 

ordinary  tone.  "  In  the  meantime,  say  to  no  one  that  he  is 
gone.  In  a  few  days,  when  I  have  made  all  the  investigations 
that  are  possible,  it  may  gradually  come  out  that  he  has  gone 
away — to  sea,  to  join  the  army,  to  the  West.  I  will  arrange 
all  that.  He  will  escape  suspicion,  I  trust,  and  that  is  the  one 
chance  there  is  that  he  may  finally  be  won  back  to  his  home. 
Some  time  we  may  be  able  to  let  him  know  you  have  lovingly 
concealed  his  sin,  and  that  it  need  not  stand  between  him  and 
a  fair  life  in  the  future.  It  is  the  only  hope." 

Christine  took  a  step  or  two  towards  the  door  and  then 
paused,  and  with  a  painful  hesitation  said :  "  I  hope  you  do  not 
blame  me  for  coming  to  you  so — for  asking  such  favors  from 
you.  I  know  it  must  seem  strange.  I  cannot  quite  understand 
how  I  can  do  it — but " 

"  But  you  listen  to  your  heart,  Christine,  which  tells  you  it 
is  right.  Continue  to  believe  it,  not  only  for  your  own  sake 
but  for  the  sake  of  duty.  I  have  taken  npon  myself  this  charge. 
Do  not  feel  pained  to  have  to  call  upon  me ;  if  you  had  no 
interest  in  him,  I  should  have  done  the  same  for  him." 

Christine  raised  her  head  with  an  involuntary  look  of  sur 
prise.  He  added,  hastily : 

"  The  grandson  of  Dr.  Upham  can  never  be  indifferent  to 
me." 

She  turned  hastily  away,  and  pulling  her  cloak  around  her, 
with  some  half-inaudible  words  hurried  out  into  the  storm. 

13* 


298  MADELINE   SNAPS   THE   CHAINS. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

MADELINE    SNAPS    THE    CHAINS. 

"Life  is  too  short  for  logic ;  what  I  do 
I  must  do  simply  ;  God  alone  must  judge, 

For  God  alone  shall  guide. 

I  hare  snapped  opinion's  chains,  and  now  I'll  soar 

Up  to  the  blazing  sunlight,  and  be  free." 

KINGSLEY. 

MADELINE  CLYBOURNE  was  walking  up  and  down  her  own  room 
like  a  caged  tigress  ;  her  face  was  pale,  her  eyes  were  burning 
with  indignant  fire.  Mrs.  Clybourne,  more  haggard  and  thinner 
than  ever  before,  sat  by  the  window  with  a  fixed  though  troubled 
expression,  striving  to  stem  the  torrent  of  her  daughter's  ex 
cited  words,  and  to  conquer  some  resolution  she  had  formed. 

It  was  autumn,  some  six  months  after  Raymond's  disgrace  and 
disappearance — six  months  which  had  been  spent  in  retirement 
and  silence  at  the  cottage  ;  and  now,  for  the  first  time  since  that 
event,  Mrs.  Clybourne  had  begun  to  talk  to  Madeline  about 
going  into  the  world  again — about  keeping  up  her  position  in 
society — not  giving  up  what  they  had  both  worked  so  hard  to 
obtain — not  surrendering  upon  the  first  rebuff.  It  seemed 
strange  that  so  painful  a  trial  as  this  had  not  broken  Mrs. 
Clybourne's  spirit ;  but  the  truth  was,  her  ambition  had  a  very 
deep  root,  and  all  this  ambition  was  for  Madeline.  Of  Raymond 
she  had  long  expected  some  such  thing  as  this ;  she  knew  him  to 
be  utterly  unprincipled,  and  all  she  ha'd  hoped  for  him  for  many 
years  had  been  an  exemption  from  notorious  disgrace.  When 
the  blow  came,  she  nerved  herself  to  bear  it,  and  she  inwardly 
pledged  herself  never  to  give  up  the  fight  till  she  was  beaten 


MADELINE    SNAPS    THE    CHAINS.  299 

back  inch  by  inch  from  the  ground  that  she  had  so  long  disputed. 
Mrs.  Clybourne  was  not  softened  by  this  discipline;  how  we 
bear  our  trials  is  not  a  question  of  the  moment ;  it  is  as  we  have 
spent  our  lives  and  fitted  ourselves  to  meet  them.  Mrs.  Cly 
bourne  had  made  herself  very  strong  to  resist  humiliation  and 
very  stubborn  to  resent  the  pity  of  the  world. 

She  had  been  dreading  for  some  time  the  effect  her  wishes 
might  have  upon  her  daughter,  but  it  was  now  time  she  knevr 
them.  She  anticipated  a  storm,  and  she  was  confident  she 
could  weather  it  safely.  Mrs.  Sherman,  just  returned  from 
Europe,  had  written  her  a  very  characteristic  though  kind- 
hearted  letter,  telling  her  to  send  Madeline  to  her  for  the 
winter,  and  she  would  provide  for  her  and  take  her  out  into 
society.  This  offer  proceeded  partly  from  an  impulsive  good 
ness  of  heart  which  she  had  not  quite  worn  out,  and  which  was 
still  strong  enough  to  actuate  her  if  the  action  did  not  involve 
any  trial  to  her  selfishness ;  and  partly  from  a  desire  to  have 
again  with  her  the  high-spirited  girl  with  whom  she  always 
quarrelled,  but  who  gave  a  sort  of  fresh  interest  to  her  blaze  life. 

"  Madeline,"  said  her  mother,  quietly,  "  if  you  are  perverse 
and  refuse  to  go  to  town  this  winter,  let  me  assure  you  of  one 
thing — before  another  comes  around  you  will  be  forgotten." 

"  I  hope  I  may  be,"  she  said,  bitterly.  "  To  be  forgotten  is 
the  best  thing  that  can  happen  to  those  that  bear  the  name  of 
Clybourne.  Forgotten !  good  heavens,  they  have  little  to 
remember  of  me  that  I  do  not  want  to  forget  myself;  I  wish  I 
could  blot  it  all  out  for  ever.  I  wish  I  could  forget  them  as 
they  will  forget  me — forget  that  I  ever  was  part  of  so  untrue 
and  miserable  a  life.  Mother,  you  need  not  ask  it  of  me  ;  I  will 
not  go  back  to  it." 

"  You  will  behave  ungratefully  and  cruelly  then,  Madeline. 
You  will  repay  the  care  of  my  whole  life  most  shamefully." 

Madeline  turned  abruptly  round  and  stood  still;  her  face 
flushed  suddenly. 


300  MADELINE   SNAPS   THE   CHAINS. 

"  Mother,  I  never  meant  to  reproach  you  with  it ;  I  never 
meant  to  remind  you  you  had  done  it ;  but  if  you  say  that — I 
say — look  at  me !  What  have  you  made  me — what  have  you 
brought  me  to !  A  wretched  woman,  eating  my  own  heart  out 
with  discontent  and  misery ;  a  useless,  frittered  mind,  an  ill- 
governed,  fretful  temper,  a  heart  that  cries  out  day  and  night 
in  its  intolerable  and  bitter  loneliness.  Mother !  your  children 
have  disappointed  you,  but  you  have  had  them  in  your  arms ; 
they  have  filled  your  time,  your  thoughts,  your  love.  My 
father  died,  but  you  have  the  memory  of  the  days  when  your 
hearts  beat  against  each  other  and  your  lips  met  in  a  thousand 
kisses.  But  I — I  have  no  memories.  I  have  no  hopes,  no 
aims,  no  duties.  You  have  kept  away  from  me  all  healthy  food, 
and  my  soul  is  starved  and  savage.  It  only  made  my  sister 
weak  and  puny — it  has  made  me  desperate  and  wicked.  You 
should  have  judged  me  better ;  you  should  have  given  me 
something  to  stop  the  gnawing  at  my  heart.  I  could  have 
done  a  good  work  in  the  world.  I  am  a  head  and  shoulder 
above  other  women ;  I  am  capable  of  greater  things  than  they. 
And  what  am  I  now  ?  My  soul  dwarfed  and  undeveloped — 
my  intellect  wasted — my  powers  unused — my  name  disgraced — 
stung  to  madness  by  the  failure  of  my  life — and  you  look  at  me 
coldly  and  say  I  am  ungrateful  and  undutiful,  and  tell  me  to 
go  back  to  the  artificial  glare  and  stifling  heat  of  that  place  I 
hated  years  ago!  You  tell  me  to  go  back  and  live  it  all  over 
again — the  trifling  and  the  meanness  and  the  falsehood — now 
since  this  great  shame  has  fallen  on  us — now,  0  mother ! 
No  ;  I  will  not  go  back  !  No  ;  I  will  defy  and  set  at  naught 
any  authority  that  commands  me  to  do  that  You  need  not 
ask  it  of  me." 

Mrs.  Clybourne  looked  very  pale  ;  she  was  not  quite  prepared 
for  this ;  but  she  had  conquered  Madeline  so  many  times  before 
through  the  girl's  sense  of  duty  to  her  and  by  the  force  of  her 
own  older  if  not  stronger  will,  that  she  did  not  give  up. 


MADELINE   SNAPS   THE   CHAINS.      f  301 

"  Madeline,  this  is  quixotic  and  absurd.  You  are  saying  some 
very  foolish  things.  You  are  excited  ;  you  will  feel  differently 
by  and  by." 

"  I  am  not  excited.  I  should  have  given  you  the  same 
answer  any  time  that  you  had  asked  me  for  the  six  months  past." 

"  I  trust  too  much  to  your  good  sense,  Madeline,  to  believe 
this  of  you.  You  talk  as  if  your  life  were  ended,  whereas  in 
reality  it  has  just  begun.  At  twenty,  and  with  your  beauty " 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  about  my  beauty,"  she  cried,  passionately. 
"I  hate  it  ;  I  wish  that  I  had  never  had  it!  It  is  going  from 
me,  and  you  know  it.  You  look  at  me,  when  you  think  I  do 
not  notice,  with  a  troubled  and  unhappy  look.  No,  you  have 
spent  your  capital — there  is  nothing  left ;  we  must  begin  the 
world  again  impoverished.  I  hate  myself  when  I  look  in  my 
glass,  when  I  think  of  the  hours  that  I  have  spent  before  it,  the 
foolish  and  vain  dreams  that  it  has  inspired  me  with.  When  I 
remember  the  thousand  times  that  my  fingers  have  plaited  my 
hair,  I  loathe  it,  and  long  to  cut  it  off  and  wear  a  cap,  and 
change  myself  to  my  own  eyes.  I  do  not  care  for  the  world's 
eyes  any  longer  ;  approving  or  disdaining,  they  have  lost  their 
power  with  me.  There  is  something  deeper ;  there  is  another 
life.  I  have  outgrown  the  other.  You  cannot  crowd  my  soul 
down  into  it  again.  You  must  let  me  live  my  life  now.  I  have 
lived  yours  long  enough." 

"  Never  ask  my  consent,"  said  Mrs.  Clybourne,  rising  to  go 
out,  "  to  withdraw  yourself  from  the  world  and  live  a  different 
life  from  that  which  your  birth  and  station  fit  you  for.  If  my 
authority  does  not  bring  you  to  submit,  your  own  good  sense,  I 
trust,  will,  at  last." 

Mrs.  Clybourne  left  the  room  and  went  down  stairs,  quite 
pale  and  shaken  in  nerves,  but  quite  confident  that  she  should 
trin  mph  in  the  end.  She  had  a  good  many  material  considera 
tions,  which,  presented  to  Madeline  in  proper  form,  could  not  fail 
to  have  their  weight.  Susie  with  her  five  noisy  children,  and 


302  MADELINE    SNAPS    TUB    CHAINS. 

cumbering,  heavy  husband,  were  coming  to  the  cottage  next  week, 
the  last  dollar  of  their  badly  invested  fortune  gone,  and  it  would 
be  worse  than  torture  to  Madeline  to  live  in  the  house  with  them. 
Besides,  Mrs.  Clybourne's  slender  income  would  barely  supply 
the  family  needs ;  one  person  less  in  the  household  would  be  a 
great  relief,  and  Mrs.  Sherman's  generous  offer  to  provide  for 
all  Madeline's  wants,  could  not  be  thrown  aside.  Madeline 
must,  should,  be  brought  to  reason;  "hope  springs  eternal;" 
this  winter's  campaign  might  restore  all,  and  bring  the  long 
looked-for  piece  of  fortune. 

The  next  morning,  going  into  Madeline's  room,  the  mother's 
courage  and  high  spirit  gave  way  for  the  first  time  in  all  her 
hard  and  struggling  life.  Madeline  was  gone — with  her  plain 
est  clothes,  half-a-dozen  favorite  books,  a  little  writing  desk, 
and  a  tiny  work-box  that  she  had  had  given  her  when  a  little 
girl.  A  very  affectionate  but  determined  letter  came  to  light, 
promising  her  mother  that  she  should  hear  from  her,  and  that 
in  every  way  that  was  possible  she  would  respect  her  wishes ; 
stating  that  she  knew  the  home  resources,  and  that  in  no  way 
could  she  add  to  them,  while  she  remained  at  home,  or  ease  her 
mother's  cares.  Susie  would  be  more  of  a  comfort  to  her,  she 
supposed,  than  she  had  ever  been  or  ever  could  be,  with  their 
different  views.  She  reminded  her  mother  that  she  had  told 
her  not  to  ask  her  consent  to  what  she  was  about  to  do,  and, 
knowing  that  she  could  not  make  her  see  it  as  she  did,  she  had 
taken  this  method  of  solving  the  difficulty,  and  assumed  for 
herself  the  responsibility  of  giving  up  the  world.  She  hoped 
for  brighter  days,  when  she  should  resume  her  place  by  her 
mother's  side,  and  share  with  her  the  hopes  and  pleasures  of  a 
wiser  life,  if  she  could  but  find  out  where  it  lay. 

All  the  trials  of  Mrs.  Clybourne's  life  seemed  as  nothing  when 
compared  with  this :  she  felt  that  all  the  promise  of  this  world 
was  over,  and  sank  on  her  knees  by  Madeline's  empty  bed,  for 
the  first  time  an  humbled  woman. 


TWO    YEARS   LATER.  303 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

TWO    TEARS    LATER. 

"  Surely  this  is  the  birthday  of  no  grief, 
That  dawns  so  pleasantly  along  the  skiea." 

HOOD. 

Two  years  had  passed  since  then,  two  long  years  of  anxiety  and 
silence.  Julian  had  not  been  heard  from :  the  most  careful 
investigation  had  left  it  still  a  mystery  whether  he  had  gone 
abroad  or  remained  in  America,  calling  himself  by  some  other 
name  and  disguising  his  appearance  so  effectually  that  none  of 
those  upon  the  watch  for  him  were  able  to  detect  him.  Ray 
mond  Clybourne  and  Harry  Gilmore  were  less  adroit  in  their 
concealment;  Raymond  had  been  heard  of  in  Havana,  and 
the  police  had  been  more  than  once  on  the  track  of  Harry,  and 
had  lost  it. 

By  some  strange  good  fortune,  Julian's  name  never  was  asso 
ciated  with  theirs,  though  the  nearness  of  the  time  of  their 
disappearance  would  have  seemed  to  warrant  it.  But  Dr. 
Catherwood  had  been  so  careful  in  disconnecting  all  traces  of 
Julian  with  them,  and  had  given  so  dexterous  a  coloring  to  his 
departure,  that  all  were  blinded.  The  boy  had  always  professed 
a  passion  for  the  sea,  and  it  was  very  easy  to  make  people 
receive  the  impression  that  he  had  sailed  for  the  Mediterranean, 
and  would  perhaps  be  absent  years,  sailing  in  some  vessel  that 
traded  between  its  ports. 

At  first  people  were  disposed  to  inquire  a. -good  deal  about 
him ;  but  by  and  by  they  began  to  forget  to  ask,  and  before 
the  end  of  these  two  years  he  had  pretty  much  died  out  of 


304  TWO   TEARS   LA.TEK. 

mind,  and  Christine  had  very  little  trouble  in  evading  inquiries 
about  him. 

Between  her  father  and  herself  there  was  an  oppressive 
silence  in  respect  to  him.  Sometimes,  when  her  heart  ached  to 
bursting  with  apprehension  and  yearning,  it  would  have  been 
an  unspeakable  relief  to  have  thrown  herself  into  her  father's 
arms  and  wept  out  her  anguish.  But  since  the  day  when  the 
dreadful  news  of  Julian's  crime  had  been  communicated  to  him, 
he  had  been  perfectly  silent  regarding  him,  and  no  one  had 
dared  to  break  the  silence.  His  health  was  sinking  slowly  but 
surely ;  his  daughter  clung  to  him  more  closely  each  month, 
as  she  saw  the  desolation  ahead  drawing  towards  her  steadily. 

With  Dr.  Catherwood  the  silence  was  almost  as  oppressive. 
Since  that  morning  when  she  had  gone  to  him  with  the  news, 
there  had  been  a  restraint,  a  coldness  between  them  that  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  break  through.  His  manner  had  lost 
some  of  its  self-control;  he  did  not  seem  to  trust  himself  as 
formerly,  and  she  never  could  forget  the  chill  of  his  last  words  on 
that  morning.  Altogether,  this  last  two  years  had  been  the 
saddest  and  hardest  of  her  life.  She  had  passed  through 
moments  of  worse  anguish  in  others,  but  the  aggregate  of 
suffering  was  greater  now.  While  Julian  was  a  present  object 
of  anxiety  and  unhappiness,  there  was  the  relief  of  action 
and  exertion,  and,  though  she  did  not  acknowledge  it  to  her 
self,  the  constant  support  and  sympathy  of  Dr.  Catherwood. 
Now,  there  was  no  longer  any  reason  for  this,  and  they  were 
almost  strangers.  It  was  the  one  softening  influence  of  her 
life  withdrawn ;  she  had  had  no  other  real  sympathy  and 
pleasure,  and  she  felt  the  loneliness  almost  insupportable.  She 
knew  that  her  father's  life  was  drawing  to  its  close,  and  that 
she  could  almost  count  the  days  that  would  be  soothed  by  the 
touch  of  his  living  hand.  The  future  looked  so  dark  and 
desolate  ;  the  present  was  so  grey  and  still.  There  was  a  dull 
monotony  about  the  days  that  made  her  sometimes  uncontrolla- 


TWO   TEAES   LATEE.  805 

bly  impatient  of  them ;  but  at  last  their  monotony  was  broken, 
and  she  repented  with  a  pang  of  her  impatience. 

It  was  November  ;  fires  had  not  been  lighted  yet;  the  season 
was  very  late  ;  the  leaves  had  yellowed  without  brilliant  tints, 
and  still  hung  on  the  trees;  the  days  were  mild  and  hazy;  the 
nights  starless  and  still.  It  was  the  morning  of  the  seventh ; 
Christine  was  sitting  by  her  father's  bedside,  when  he  roused 
himself  and  said  : 

"  It  is  time  for  the  mail,  my  daughter;  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  father,"  she  said,  rising.  "I  will  put  on  my  bonnet 
and  go  down  to  the  office  for  it.  I  have  an  errand  in  the  town, 
besides." 

Dr.  Upham's  one  interest  in  the  outside  world  now  seemed 
to  be  the  receipt  of  the  daily  mail.  He  had  always  been  par 
ticular  about  hearing  from  the  post-office  as  soon  as  it  was 
opened ;  and  he  continued  to  count  the  moments  till  some 
messenger  brought  him  the  assurance  that  nothing  of  import 
ance  had  come  to  him,  either  through  public  or  private  sources. 
The  servants  were  apt  to  loiter  a  little  on  the  way,  or  not  to  be 
so  promptly  attended  to  at  the  office ;  so  Christine  knew  she 
pleased  her  father  best  by  going  for  the  letters  and  papers  her 
self,  and  bringing  them  directly  to  him.  It  was  a  pleasant 
walk  for  her  sometimes — the  only  one  she  had  in  the 
course  of  the  day — for  most  of  her  time  now  was  demanded  by 
him. 

She  was  a  little  early  this  morning,  and  she  loitered  rather 
slowly  along  the  broad,  quiet  walk,  strewed  with  yellow  leaves 
and  shaded  with  yellow  boughs  that  made  an  artificial  sun 
shine  under  the  pale,  grey  sky.  was  a  pleasant,  quiet 

town  even  in  its  busiest  streets.  The  post-office  was  in  the 
principal  one — a.  large  and  rather  dark  building,  formerly  used 
as  a  store-house.  There  was  a  great  square  room  in  front 
where  people  waited  for  their  letters,  and  where  men  read  the 
papers  ;  and  at  the  back  of  it  ran  a  partition  that  shut  off  the 


306  TWO    YEARS    LATER. 

office  proper,  and  in  which  was  the  window  through  which  the 
mail  matter  was  delivered. 

Just  as  Christine  reached  the  door  of  the  office,  there  was  a 
noise  and  excitement  in  the  cross-street  below,  a  rush  to  the 
door  of  the  people  waiting  for  the  mail,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  give  way  and  step  back  on  the  pavement  and  gaze  with  the 
gazing  crowd  towards  the  scene  of  the  excitement.  It 
was  only  a  moment's  sight,  and  Christine  hardly  compre 
hended  it. 

A  cart  rolled  along,  followed  by  men  and  boys,  who  were 
drawn  after  it  by  curiosity  alone,  for  they  were  mostly  silent, 
and  only  the  noise  of  their  feet  was  heard  shuffling  and  tram 
pling  upon  the  pavement.  In  the  cart  there  was  some  one  strug 
gling  and  screaming — a  woman's  voice,  smothered  and  silenced 
by  those  who  held  her,  and  then  bursting  out  shrill  and 
piercing.  Christine  did  not  see  her  face;  sickened  and 
frightened,  she  turned  away  from  the  sight.  There  were  some 
exclamations  and  a  good  many  shrugs  and  shakings  of  the 
head  as  the  people  turned  back  and  re-entered  the  office. 

The  mail  was  not  open  yet.  Christine  thought  she  would 
go  out  and  walk  for  a  few  moments,  but  she  feared  coming 
upon  the  horrid  sight  again,  and  in  truth  it  had  made  her  so 
faint  she  scarcely  dared  trust  herself  to  walk  at  once ;  so  she 
took  a  seat  that  some  one  kindly  placed  for  her  and  waited, 
listening  meanwhile  to  the  talk  of  those  around  her. 

Near  her  stood  a  well-dressed,  quiet-looking  woman,  who  was 
asking  the  man  beside  her  who  it  was  they  were  -carrying  off 
on  the  cart,  and  what  the  matter  with  her  was. 

"  Why,"  said  the  man,  who  seemed  very  much  pleased  to 
find  some  one  who  had  not  heard  all  about  the  occurrence, 
"  that  was  Phoabe  Gilmore,  whom  they  are  carrying  to  the 
mad-house.  She's  been  half-crazy  for  three  years  or  more.  I 
suppose  you've  often  seen  her  round  the  streets  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  woman,  sedately  ;  "  I'm  a  stranger  in  the 

t 


TWO    YEARS    LATER.  307 

place.  I  never  saw  her  to  my  knowledge.  What  set  her  off 
worse  at  last  ?" 

"  Why,"  said  the  man,  laying  down  his  yesterday's  paper 
across  his  knee  and  smoothing  it  out  with  a  good  deal  of  care, 
"  that  man  that  was  found  murdered  by  the  dam  this  morning 
was  her  son,  you  see ;  and  from  the  minute  that  they  took  the  body 
home  there  was  no  two  men  could  hold  her.  She's  given  the 
sheriff  a  wound  he'll  bear  the  scar  of  to  his  dying  day,  and 
she'll  do  more  mischief,  I'm  afraid,  before  they  get  her  locked 
up,  for  she's  like  a  tiger." 

"  And  so  it  was  her  son  that  was  killed,"  said  the  woman, 
with  interest ;  she  was  not  so  great  a  stranger  but  that  she 
had  heard  of  that. 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow !  He  wasn't  much  of  a  loss  to  her  or  to 
the  town,  for  he's  been  in  mischief  ever  since  he  wore  frocks ; 
but  "it's  hard  upon  a  woman  to  have  to  see  her  own  flesh 
and  blood  hacked  up  and  murdered  in  that  awful  way." 

"  They  found  him  down  by  the  dam,  didn't  they  ?"  said  the 
woman,  evidently  anxious  for  any  new  particulars  that  might 
come  to  light  in  the  man's  rendering  of  the  story. 

"  Beyond  the  dam,  down  in  a  well  that  belongs  to  the  old 
house  the  Gilmores  used  to  live  in  when  Richard  kept  the  mill. 
He'd  made  a  good  fight  for  it,  poor  fellow,  by  the  looks  of  things 
around  the  well.  There  was  blood  and  the  deep  marks  of  their 
boots  in  the  ground  half-a-dozen  yards  back  from  it  where  they 
wrestled ;  it  must  have  been  after  night-fall  and  as  black  as  tar. 
And  there  are  marks  of  blood  upon  the  curb  where  he  clung 
to  it  with  his  hands,  and  his  fingers  were  all  mangled  dreadfully 
where  the  fellow  stamped  upon  'em  to  make  him  let  go  his 
hold  and  fall.  The  well  was  dry  and  full  of  stones,  and  the  fall 
did  up  the  work." 

"  It  is  the  worst  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  said  the  woman, 
looking  a  little  pale,  but  not  willing  to  give  the  subject  up ; 
"  and  they  haven't  got  much  idea  who  it  was,  they  say  ?" 


308  TWO   TEAKS   LATER. 

"  The  whole  of  what  they've  got  to  go  upon  is  this,"  said  the 
man,  folding  his  newspaper  up  tight  and  slapping  it  upon  his 
hands  :  "  There  is  a  fellow  up  here  at  the  Factory,  Jarvis  by 
name  (a  drinking  man,  by  the  way,  and  not  the  best  sort  of  a 
witness  to  go  upon  the  stand),  who  swears,  as  he  was  going 
out  on  the  Turnsbury  road  last  night,  he  saw  two  men  coming 
towards  the  dam.  It's  a  pretty  lonesome  road,  and  was  almost 
night-fall,  and  as  there  were  two  of  them,  Jarvis  most  likely 
did  not  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet  as  he  went  past  'em. 
He'll  swear  to  young  Gilmore,  which  don't  do  much  good,  con 
sidering  all  the  town  has  a  chance  of  swearing  to  him,  poor 
fellow ;  but  about  the  fellow  with  him,  he  can  only  say  he  was 
a  little  slighter  than  Harry,  and  dressed  in  sailor's  clothes  like 
him.  His  face  was  turned  away  from  him,  and  so  he  can't  say 
anything  at  all  about  his  face.  He  don't  think  they  either  of 
them  saw  him,  or  took  much  notice  of  him  if  they  did,  for  there 
were  high  words  going  on  between  them,  and  the  quarrel  had 
begun,  no  doubt.  He  can't  testify  to  anything  he  heard  'em 
say,  so  I  take  it  he  was  pretty  badly  scared,  and  made  all  the 
hurry  he  knew  how.  There  hasn't  been  a  trace  found  as  yet ; 
but  they're  working  hard  for  it,  I  can  tell  you.  The  town  '11 
turn  out  to  a  man  before  they  let  him  go  ;  for  though  Harry 
Gilmore  wasn't  any  great  credit  to  it  ever,  folks  don't  like  to  feel 
there  can  be  murder  done  so  near  their  doors  and  nobody  be 
found  to  swing  for  it." 

The  man  slapped  the  newspaper  down  again  upon  his  open 
palm,  and  moved  away  towards  the  window  of  the  office,  open 
now  for  the  distribution  of  the  mail.  Almost  all  the  people 
waiting  had  been  served  and  had  gone  away  before  Christine  rose 
from  her  seat  and  went  up  to  the  window.  The  clerk  was  a 
young  man  who  had  rather  a  chivalrous  admiration  for  the 
beautiful  young  lady  who  came  every  day  for  her  father's 
letters,  and  he  noticed  with  concern  that  she  looked  pale  and 
ill.  Nobody  else  noticed  it,  though,  and  she  went  home  through 


TWO    YEARS   LATER.  309 

an  unfrequented  street  and  across  the  churchyard,  and  up  to 
her  own  room,  without  meeting  any  of  the  household. 

"  You  are  late,  Christine,"  said  her  father,  gently,  as  she 
entered  the  room  with  the  papers  in  her  hand. 

"  A  little,  perhaps,"  she  said,  bending  down  to  kiss  him. 
She  read  the  papers  through,  and  sat  by  him  with  her  work  in 
her  hand  as  usual. 

What  long  hours,  though,  they  were  till  Dr.  Catherwood 
came  and  took  her  place  and  left  her  at  liberty  to  be  alone 
awhile.  She  always  left  the  room  a  few  minutes  after  he 
entered  it ;  to-day  he  looked  at  her  a  little  anxiously,  but  she 
avoided  his  eye,  and  went  out.  When  he  came  down  stairs 
after  his  hour  with  Dr.  Upham,  he  went  towards  the  parlor 
with  some  idea  that  he  might  find  her  there.  But  she  was 
occupied  with  visitors,  and  he  merely  said  a  few  words  of 
commonplace  and  went  away. 

There  were  a  great  many  visitors  at  the  Parsonage  that  day ; 
some  who  came  from  the  ordinary  impulses  of  idleness,  of 
civility,  of  kindness;  some  who  came  on  business,  and  one  or 
two  who  came  for  pure  gossip,  and  to  talk  over  the  crime  and 
horror  of  the  day.  All,  from  whatever  motives  they  came, 
talked  of  it,  and  Christine  felt  as  if  she  should  go  mad  and  be 
Phoebe  Gilmore's  maniac  companion  if  they  did  not  go  away 
and  leave  her,  and  cease  their  hideous  conjecturing.  The  im 
pression  she  gave  to  most  of  her  visitors  was,  that  she  felt  very 
little  interest  in  the  affair  in  any  way,  and  that  she  was  rather 
cold  and  quiet  in  her  manners  when  any  sort  of  gossip  was 
discussed. 

In  the  afternoon  when  Dr.  Catherwood  came  again  he 
seemed  of  a  different  mind,  and  did  not  seek  an  interview  with 
her.  He  saw  that  by  this  time  she  had  heard  the  news,  and 
that  his  hope  of  telling  it  to  her  and  softening  the  shock  was 
over.  He  stayed  a  long  time  with  Dr.  Upham  that  afternoon, 
reading  a  new  political  pamphlet  to  him,  and  leaving  him  even 


310  TWO    YEAES   LATEK. 

more  than  ever  cheered  and  diverted  by  his  visit.  He  passed 
Christine  on  the  stairs  with  his  old  half-affectionate,  half-cheery 
smile,  and  went  out  into  the  street  with  a  haggard  and  suffer 
ing  face. 

That  evening  the  little  Dean,  nee  Richfield,  came  and  volun 
teered  to  remain  to  tea.  She  had  two  or  three  more  babies  by 
this  time,  and  as  they  had  a  great  many  teeth  to  get  among 
them,  and  a  great  deal  of  croup  and  whooping-cough  and 
measles  and  fever  to  go  through,  she  did  not  enjoy  them  quite 
as  much  as  she  did  the  first  one,  and  felt  in  fact  a  good  deal 
bored  by  having  to  stay  at  home  so  much  and  being  waked  up 
so  many  times  at  night.  She  was  very  fond  of  coming  to  see 
Christine  and  complaining  of  her  troubles,  as  at  first  she  had 
been  very  fond  of  coming  to  her  and  boasting  of  her  pleasures. 
Christine  was  generally  patience  and  gentleness  itself  with  her  ; 
in  fact,  she  was  so  sympathetic  she  really  felt  the  little  woman 
was  hardly  used  by  fate  in  having  such  a  host  of  duties  to  per 
form  for  vvbcii  she  was  no  more  fitted  than  a  kitten. 

i>ut  this  evening  her  puny,  whining  troubles  seemed  con 
temptible  to  Christine ;  she  could  not  offer  anything  but  silence 
and  endurance.  She  hoped  that  she  would  have  thought  it  her 
duty  to  go  home  early  to  the  children  ;  but  it  was  ten  o'clock 
before  she  said  anything  about  returning  to  her  nurserv  ,,,-es. 
She  had  just  rung  the  bell  for  her  carriage  and  \va>  putting  on 
her  cloak,  when  it  seemed  to  dawn  upon  ner  that  Christine 
looked  weary  and  unhappy. 

"  Now,  Christine,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  am  afraid  that  I  have 
bored  you  a  little  bit  this  evening.  But  really  you  can  form 
no  idea  what  a  life  mine  is;  and^t  seems  very  natural  to  us 
married  women  to  come  to  you  unmarried  ones,  who  have  no 
cares  to  weigh  upon  you,  to  get  a  little  repose  and  quiet.  My 
dear,  if  you  should  ever  marry,  you  will  know  what  respon 
sibilities  life  has ;  you  cannot  have  the  least  idea  of  it  till 
you  do." 


TWO    YEARS    LATER.  311 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Christine,  with  a  faint  smile.  This 
seemed  such  supreme  irony,  she  could  not  say  anything  else. 

As  she  went  to  the  door  with  her  and  kissed  her  good-night 
upon  the  steps,  a  boy  came  in  at  the  gate  and  approached  her 
slowly. 

"  Do  you  want  me  ?"  said  Christine,  as  the  boy  stood  looking 
at  her  stupidly.  "  It  is  you,  Tom  ;  is  it  ?  Well,  come  up  and 
tell  me  what  it  is." 

Mrs.  Dean  got  into  the  carriage  and  drove  off,  and  Tom  came 
up  the  steps.  He  was  a  dirty,  ragged  fellow,  for  whom  Chris 
tine  had  a  kindness,  and  who  had  been  a  scholar  of  hers  when 
younger.  He  always  seemed  shy  of  her ;  but  he  had  a  very 
strong  admiration  for  her,  and  thought  in  his  clumsy  way  that 
if  she  should  ever  touch  his  arm  or  his  hair  with  that  beautiful 
white  hand  of  hers,  as  she  used  to  do  sometimes,  he  should  not 
know  how  to  conduct  himself  he  should  be  so  excited.  He 
never  managed  to  speak  above  a  whisper  in  her  presence,  and 
looked  so  stupid  and  confused  whenever  she  addressed  him,  that 
she  had  almost  given  up  saying  anything  to  him  beyond  an 
unsuggestive  How  are  you,  Tom  ?  with  her  involuntarily  sweet 
smile.  He  stood  by  the  door  struggling  with  his  diffidence ; 
suddenly  he  plunged  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and,  drawing  out 
a  scrap  of  paper,  held  it  towards  her. 

"You  mustn't  tell,"  he  faltered,  "that  I  brought  it  to  you; 
and  I  mustn't  either,  the  man  said." 

"  What  man,  Tom  ?"  said  Christine,  in  a  low  tone,  feeling 
her  limbs  giving  way  beneath  her,  and  resting  her  hand  against 
the  door. 

"  The  man  down  there,"  he  said,  pointing  in  the  direction 
of  the  mill-dam.  "  He  crawled  out  of  the  woods  and  called 
me.  He's  very  bad,  I  guess.  He  told  me  to  bring  it  to  you, 
and  I  mustn't  ever  tell." 

All  this  was  delivered  in  a  thick  whisper,  with  a  choking  of 
the  breath  between  the  pauses. 


312  TWO    YEARS    LATER. 

"  And  you  never  must,"  said  Christine,  laying  her  hand  upon 
his  arm.  "  Promise  me,  Tom,  you  never  will.  I  have  always 
liked  you,  and  I  believe  you  will  do  this  thing  for  me." 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  stammered,  in  a  tremor  of  con 
fusion,  starting  down  the  steps. 

Christine  went  in  the  parlor  to  the  light.  Her  heart  was 
throbbing  frightfully,  and  there  was  a  cloud  before  her  eyes. 
It  was  several  minutes  before  she  could  read  the  few  words 
scrawled  upon  the  paper.  They  were  very  few,  and  there  was 
no  name ;  there  needed  none  ;  she  wanted  no  assurance  who  had 
sent  for  her.  She  sat  down,  stunned  and  trembling,  and  tried 
to  be  silent  and  to  think.  Her  father's  bell  rang,  and  glancing 
at  the  clock,  she  saw  that  the  hour  was  past  when  she  ordi 
narily  read  prayers  by  his  bed,  and  made  the  thousand  minute 
arrangements  for  the  night  which  recur  so  monotonously  in  the 
sick-room. 

"  You  are  late,  Christine,"  her  father  said,  for  the  second 
time  that  day.  His  tone  was  very  gentle  and  not  reproachful ; 
only  one  of  surprise  that  she  could  possibly  have  failed  to 
anticipate  him  as  she  always  did. 

It  was  easy  to  say  the  prayers ;  her  whole  soul  was  one  wild 
prayer ;  but  it  was  not  so  easy  to  spend  the  long  hour  that  was 
needful  in  the  adjustment  of  the  apartment  for  the  night,  in 
the  arrangement  of  innumerable  meaningless  details.  When 
at  last  she  stooped  to  kiss  him,  he  put  his  hand  upon  her  head, 
as  he  ever  did,  and  said  : 

"  Good-night,  my  child.     God  bless  you  always !" 


MIDNIGHT    IN    HARRY'S    OLD    HOME.  313 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

MIDNIGHT    IN    HARRy's    OLD    HOME. 

"  In  all  the  mansions  of  the  house  on  high, 
Say  not  that  Mercy  has  not  one  for  him." 

HOLMES. 

THE  lamps  were  not  burning  in  the  streets  of  that  night 

at  twelve  o'clock,  for  the  moon  was  due,  and  it  was  not  the 
fault  of  the  municipal  rulers  if  it  did  not  shine.  Therefore  it 
was  not  surprising  that  of  the  four  thousand  souls  in  the  town 
not  one  had  any  knowledge  of,  or  interest  in,  the  slight  figure 
in  the  grey  cloak  that  stole  along  in  the  thick  shadow  of  the 
houses  through  the  least  frequented  streets  and  out  into  the 
western  suburbs,  in  the  direction  of  the  lonely  mill.  The  town 
had  been  growing  since  the  night  Julian  was  dragged  senseless 
out  of  the  ice-covered  pond,  but  it  had  grown  away  from  it, 
in  another  direction ;  and  all  this  road  was  as  lonely  and  as  un 
frequented  as  it  was  then,  when  Christine,  then  as  now,  hurried 
along  it  with  a  beating,  anxious  heart.  She  could  hardly  be 
lieve  the  direction  that  the  note  had  given  her ;  but  the  only 
thing  she  could  do  was  implicitly  to  follow  it.  The  scene  of 
the  murder  was  not  the  most  probable  place  in  which 
to  seek  the  murderer;  perhaps  this  was  the  reason  that  she 
had  been  told  to  come  to  the  miller's  house  to  meet  him ;  but  it 
was  a  terrible  place  of  rendezvous — were  his  nerves  of  iron 
that  he  could  bear  it ! 

She  reached  the  limit  of  the  fence  that  bounded  the  enclosure 
of  the  old  place,  and  paused  to  listen.     No  one  was  following  her ; 

14 


314  MIDNIGHT  IN  ii AERY'S  OLD  HOME. 

there   was   no   sound   but   the   rush   of  the   water   over   the 

dam — 

"  The  air  was  hushed  and  still  and  close 
As  a  sick  man's  room,  when  he  taketli  repose 
An  hour  before  death." 

She  pushed  her  way  through  a  broken  part  of  the  fence, 
crossed  the  old  garden — rank  weeds,  dry  and  brittle,  breaking 
and  crackling  at  every  step.  At  last  she  found  her  way  into 
what  had  once  been  the  centre  path  of  the  garden,  where  the 
weeds  were  not  so  thick.  She  had  avoided  entering  by  the 
gate  in  the  front  of  the  house,  not  only  because  she  felt  this 
to  be  the  more  secret  and  safer  way,  but  because  she  dreaded 
the  sight  of  the  old  well,  where,  not  twenty-four  hours  before, 
the  brutal  and  revolting  deed  had  been  committed.  She  did 
not  know  exactly  where  it  stood ;  it  was  long  since  she  had 
been  in  this  enclosure,  but  she  fancied  the  well  stood  at  the 
other  side  of  the  house,  in  view  from  the  gate,  if  she  had  gone  in 
that  way. 

With  a  feeling  of  sudden  horror,  as  if  the  scene  of  last  night 
had  been  brought  before  her  eyes,  she  found  herself  confronting 
the  spot  she  had  avoided.  The  long  sweep  of  the  well-pole  was 
visible  dimly  against  the  sky,  standing  like  a  giant  gallows  over 
the  broken  curb  and  ruined  well.  The  blood  seemed  to  curdle 
in  her  veins.  She  could  hardly  persuade  herself  she  did  not 
hear  the  smothered  cries  for  help ;  the  curses,  the  blows, 
the  deadly,  fatal  fall. 

The  scene  in  the  old  mill,  on  that  beautiful  August  evening 
years  ago,  mixed  itself  up  strangely  with  this  one  of  her 
imagination.  The  thrill  of  horror  with  which  she  had  watched 
helplessly  the  struggle  between  the  boys,  the  mingled  sense  of 
relief  and  terror  with  which  she  had  seen  Julian  triumph  and 
heard  poor  Ilarry  fall,  all  these  things  came  back  to  her  as 
vividly  as  if  to-night's  sun  had  just  gone  down  upon  them. 
She  had  prayed  n. articulately  and  instinctively  for  Julian's 


MIDNIGHT   IN    HAKBY's    OLD    HOME.  315 

safety,  as  she  watched  them.  And  Julian  had  been  saved — for 
this — for  shame  and  everlasting  contempt — for  a  crime  which 
made  even  her  strong  faith  falter.  Oh,  that  he  instead  of  Harry 
had  gone  down !  That  the  waves  had  closed  over  and  choked 
his  breath  before  it  had  polluted  his  whole  life  with  falsehood — 
that  his  soul  in  its  comparative  innocence  had  been  taken  away 
from  the  evil  to  come !  How  should  she  meet  him — how 
touch  the  hand  that  had  done  such  a  fearful  deed  of  wicked 
ness  ? 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  the  gloomy  object  that 
stretched  across  her  path,  and  hurried  towards  the  house. 

The  neglected  vines,  that  had  nearly  framed  themselves 
across  the  porch,  had  since  the  morning  been  rudely  torn  away 
to  afford  entrance  for  men  and  officers  who  had  searched  it 
from  garret  to  cellar,  and  had  gone  away  and  pronounced  it 
undisturbed  for  months.  As  she  pushed  open  the  door  softly 
and  made  her  way  across  the  desolate  kitchen,  she  thought  of 
poor  Phoebe  in  her  narrow  cell,  and  Richard  mouldering  in  his 
lonely  grave,  and  Harry  lying  above-ground  for  the  last  time 
to-night,  a  murdered,  mangled  corpse.  She  remembered  the 
cheerful,  well-kept  room  of  old,  the  bright  fire,  the  shining 
window-panes,  the  father's  easy  content,  the  mother's  thrift  and 
energy,  the  boy's  beauty  and  health ;  this  was  all  surely  some 
frightful  dream  from  which  she  should  awake. 

She  made  her  way  carefully  across  the  room  with  outstretched 
hands,  feeling  for  the  door  that  led  up  to  the  little  kitchen 
chamber.  Her  hand  touched  the  latch  ;  she  lifted  it  and  began 
to  ascend  the  stairs — where  Harry's  feet  had  climbed  so  often, 
where  Phoebe's  energetic  tread  had  so  many  times  resounded. 
She  did  not  feel  fear,  but  a  dazzling,  unsettling  sense  of  horror 
and  of  sin. 

The  room  was  bare  of  furniture,  but  several  boxes  stood  in  it, 
and  some  rubbish  lay  upon  the  floor.  The  two  dormer  win 
dows,  open  to  the  sky,  admitted  the  faintest  light)  not  much 


316  MIDNIGHT   IN   HABEY'S    OLD    HOME. 

more  than  enough  to  show  Christine  where  she  stood,  and  what 
was  within  reach  of  her  hand.  A  dark  object  in  one  corner 
below  the  window  moved;  and  yet,  sure  of  it  as  she  was,  she 
heard  no  sound.  She  dared  not  speak ;  in  fact,  at  that  moment, 
she  could  not  have  commanded  voice  enough  to  articulate  a 
word.  She  began  to  be  afraid  for  herself,  a  thought  that  had 
not  crossed  her  mind  before.  There  was  some  lirinw  being  in 

O  O 

this  room  with  her,  this  lonely,  smothering  place ;  if  it  were 
Julian,  he  would  speak ;  if  it  were  he  who  had  sent  for  her,  he 
would  know  that  she  was  come. 

Several  minutes  passed.  The  dark  object  in  the  corner, 
which  Christine  now  distinctly  discerned  to  be  the  figure  of  a 
man  half-raised  from  the  floor,  did  not  stir  a  hair's  breadth. 

This  figure  seemed  to  her  so  much  larger  than  she  remem 
bered  Julian ;  she  only  longed  for  strength  to  go  away ;  for 
when  she  tried  to  move,  she  found  herself  in  a  helpless  and 
benumbed  condition.  The  weakness  of  her  limbs  had  come 
very  suddenly,  with  the  first  doubt  of  Julian's  presence  and  the 
first  throb  of  personal  fear.  At  last  she  made  a  few  hurried, 
uncertain  steps  towards  the  door,  and  then,  through  the  giddy 
and  wild  fluttering  of  her  nerves  that  almost  deafened  her,  she 
heard  her  name  pronounced.  She  stopped,  and  steadying 
herself  by  grasping  the  post  of  the  door  by  which  she  stood, 
turned  back  her  head  and  listened.  After  a  moment  it  was 
repeated  in  a  husky  and  strange  voice.  She  looked  towards 
the  corner ;  with  a  groan  the  man  had  sunk  down  again  upon 
the  floor,  and  all  was  silent. 

******* 

An  hour  later,  Christine  was  standing  alone  upon  the 
porch  of  Dr.  Catherwood's  cottage.  A  light  was  shining 
through  the  half-closed  shutters  of  the  little  parlor,  and,  putting 
aside  the  vines  and  looking  in,  she  saw  Dr.  Catherwood  pacing 
up  and  down  the  room.  She  could  not  see  his  face,  for  the 
light  was  low ;  she  could  only  conjecture  from  his  restless 


MIDNIGHT  IN  HAERY'S  OLD  HOME.  317 

movements  that  some  deep  anxiety  was  keeping  him  from 
sleep.  He  started  as  she  touched  the  window  lightly,  and 
coming  forward  quickly,  opened  it. 

The  window  was  a  casement  that  opened  to  the  floor ;  he 
gave  a  look  of  surprise  as  he  beheld  Christine  standing  before 
it.  She  entered  hastily,  and,  pushing  the  window  to  behind 
her,  said,  in  the  breathless  voice  of  one  who  has  an  overpower 
ing  fear  and  wish,  and  who  forgets  effects  and  preliminaries  and 
explanations  : 

"  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost — it  will  be  daylight  soon 
— some  place  must  be  found — he  is  hiding  in  the  miller's 
house — and  that  is  madness,  you  must  see." 

"You  forget  I  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  of," 
said  her  companion,  huskily. 

Christine  saw  on  his  face  the  look  of  sickening  pain  that  she 
had  seen  when  she  told  him  of  Julian's  theft ;  he  must  have 
said  this  only  to  gain  time.  She  knew  that,  as  well  as  this, 
was  no  surprise  to  him  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  the  certainty  drove 
home  a  stab  that  staggered  him. 

"  You  do  not  guess  ?"  she  said  with  a  shudder,  sinking  down 
into  a  chair.  "Oh,  do  not  make  me  tell  you — it  is  too  awful." 

"  No,  you  need  not  tell  me,"  he  said,  turning  from  her  and 
walking  once  or  twice  across  the  floor.  Christine  bowed  her 
face  down  upon  the  table  before  her  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Christine,"  whispered  her  companion,  bending  over  her, 
struck  with  remorse  at  his  own  share  in  this,  having  made  her 
speak  when  he  should  have  sustained  her  and  forgotten  him 
self.  "  Christine,  poor  child !  forgive  me ;  I  know  it  all.  I 
want  your  help — you  must  not  give  way — restrain  yourself, 
and  let  me  tell  you  what  to  do — there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"  No,  no — there  was  no  time  to  lose,  but  I  have  lost  it.  I 
cannot  do  anything — I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  endurance 
— I — I  am  worse  than  helpless — I  have  no  strength — no  mind — 
no  thought." 


318  MIDNIGHT   IN   H AERY'S    OLD   HOME. 

It  was  too  true,  her  strength  and  fortitude  had  given  way, 
and  she  was  helpless;  she  had  staggered  under  her  terrible 
burden,  till,  throwing  it  into  stronger  hands,  she  had  sunk  down 
fainting  and  undone.  Dr.  Catherwood  stooped  over  her  with  a 
tenderness  that  was  almost  agony  ;  he  pressed  his  lips  upon  her 
hair,  and  grasped  her  slender  wrists,  and  tried  to  draw  her 
hands  back  from  her  face,  reassuring  and  comforting  her  with 
broken  words  of  endearment  and  of  sympathy.  At  last  the 
paroxysm  of  grief  passed,  and  exhausted  and  almost  fainting, 
her  head  fell  back  upon  his  shoulder  and  her  eyes  closed.  That 
poor,  tear-stained,  pale,  and  wretched  face — it  wrung  his  heart  to 
look  down  at  it.  He  folded  his  arms  about  her,  and  carrying 
her  to  a  sofa,  laid  her  gently  on  it.  For  a  few  moments  he 
thought  that  it  was  worse  than  fainting;  he  forgot  the  terrible 
hurry  and  the  coming  daylight  in  his  anxiety  to  feel  th'e  beating 
of  her  heart  again,  and  see  the  light  of  consciousness  in  her 
half-closed  eyes.  At  last  she  opened  them  and  fixed  them 
on  him. 

"  Go  to  him,"  she  whispered.  "  He  is  wounded — he  is  very 
ill,  and  needs  you." 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  he  answered,  rising ;  "  and,  Christine, 
try  to  dismiss  all  anxiety  for  him  if  you  can.  I  will  save  him 
if  he  can  be  saved." 


A   DEATH-BED.  319 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A    DEATH-BED. 

"  Quls  talia  fando 

Temperet  &  lacrymis  ?" 

VlEG.  JEN.  IL  6. 

IT  was  a  dark,  still  night  again ;  the  third  terrible  and  oppres 
sive  night  since  this  new  trial  had  begun.  In  the  long  room 
that  faced  the  parlor,  in  Dr.  Catherwood's  little  house,  Christine 
sat  by  the  bedside  of  Julian,  watching  what  she  knew,  and 
what  Dr.  Catherwood  knew,  were  his  last  moments.  He  had 
sent  Harry  into  eternity,  but  Harry  had  sworn  with  his  dying 
breath  he  should  follow  him  before  many  days  were  over. 

It  had  been  a  fierce  and  desperate  reckoning  between  them. 
None  ever  knew  the  chance  word  or  threat  that  had  lighted  the 
fatal  quarrel.  Harry  had  fallen,  the  victim  as  ever,  but  had 
left  his  revenge  assured.  Stubborn,  silent,  Julian  was  meeting 
his  fate.  His  sufferings  were  so  great  there  was  no  chance  to 
talk  to  him  of  preparation ;  all  that  could  be  done  was  to  alle 
viate  them  as  far  as  practicable  and  save  the  moments  for  him, 
if  possibly  at  the  end  there  might  be  some  quiet  for  repentance. 
He  had  suffered  great  agony  in  the  removal  to  where  he  now 
was ;  it  had  been  accomplished,  though,  with  entire  secresy  and 
safety,  and  no  one  guessed,  save  the  woman  who  was  Dr. 
Catherwood's  only  servant,  that  the  open,  smiling,  pleasant  cot 
tage  held  the  murderer  whom  all  the  town  were  hunting  for. 
Christine  had  come  down  at  night,  across  the  fields,  and  had 
not  been  seen  by  any  one,  and  had  gone  back  in  the  grey 
dawn  before  there  was  a  waking  soul  in . 


320  A   DEATH-BED. 

This  enforced  stillness  and  darkness  and  secresy  made  the  sick 
room  doubly  awful ;  the  sight  of  Julian's  sufferings,  and  the 
certainty  of  their  end,  would  have  made  it  terrible  enough,  but 
the  constant  fear  that  disgrace  and  punishment  might  invade  it, 
added  to  its  gloom  a  thousand  shades  of  blackness. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock.  The  room  was  still  as  if  vacant,  save 
"for  the  labored  and  irregular  breath  of  the  sufferer  on  the  bed  ; 
Christine,  with  one  arm  beneath  his  pillow,  knelt  beside  him, 
trying  to  ease  the  agony  of  his  respirations  by  a  change  of 
attitude ;  Dr.  Catherwood,  with  his  hand  upon  the  wrist  that 
was  lying  on  the  coverlet  relaxed  and  almost  pulseless,  was 
looking  in  his  face  with  keen  and  breathless  scrutiny ;  the 
woman  beside  them  held  the  shaded  lamp  so  that  it  fell  upon 
his  features. 

There  was  no  fear  now  of  troubling  him  by  its  glare ;  the 
blindness  of  death  was  creeping  fast  over  his  open  eyes — the 
dimness  of  the  dark  prison  was  already  closing  round  his  senses. 
The  great  drops  of  perspiration  stood  upon  his  forehead  and 
upon  his  lips ;  a  harsh  expression  of  suffering  settled  round  his 
mouth,  a  livid  color  spread  itself  over  his  face ;  there  was  no 
room  to  doubt,  the  dissolution  of  soul,  and  body  was  at  hand. 
Sinning  soul  and  polluted  body,  the  one  to  be  hurried  into  high 
and  irrevocable  eternity,  the  other  to  be  laid  in  the  corrupting 
grave  waiting  for  the  resurrection  of  condemnation,  the  reward 
of  shame  and  everlasting  contempt — the  inheritance  of  those 
who  have  despised  salvation ;  and  not  one  prayer,  not  one 
moment  for  thought  and  retrospect  and  penitence — only  the 
dreadful  struggle,  only  dying,  revolting,  tortured  nature. 
Christine  had  seen  one  death-bed  before;  how  many  features 
were  repeated  here ;  how  much  of  that  hopeless  scene  came 
back  to  add  to  the  gloom  of  this  ! 

Presently,  across  the  darkness  of  the  room  (for,  excepting 
when  the  light  of  the  shaded  lamp  fell  upon  the  bed,  there  was 
utter  darkness),  there  came  the  gleam  of  a  lantern  past  the 


A    DEATH-BED.  321 

window,  left  open  to  give  air  to  the  suffocating  sufferer,  and  the 
stillness  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  steps  upon  the  walk  out 
side,  and  men's  voices,  and  a  pause  before  the  door. 

The  thrill  that  this  disturbance  gave  to  those  within  was 
indescribable.  A  moment  before,  the  awe  was  of  another  and 
a  grander  kind  ;  the  thought  of  eternity,  even  in  its  form  of 
dread,  ennobles  the  mind ;  this  sudden  shock  of  human  fear, 
of  worldly  panic,  of  the  commonplace  and  tangible,  rushing  in 
upon  the  unknown  and  the  vast,  created  a  reaction  that  was 
very  painful.  Dr.  Catherwood  started  to  his  feet  and  motioned 
Rebecca  to  the  door.  Christine  felt  that  the  tremor  that 
passed  through  her  communicated  some  dim  idea  of  danger  to 
the  dying  boy  whom  she  supported.  She  felt  his  breath  choke 
for  a  moment;  he  raised  his  head.  The  woman  had  taken  the 
lamp  with  her  in  her  alarm.  Dr.  Catherwood  had  followed  her 
quickly  to  the  door  ;  they  were  both  outside  it  now,  parleying 
with  the  new  corners.  Christine  was  alone  in  darkness  with 
the  dying.  She  felt  him  sinking  back  upon  her  heavily.  He 
gasped  : 

"They're  coming  after  me — they're  here.  Christine,  you 
mustn't  leave  me — you  must  save  me." 

There  was  a  spasmodic  movement — a  sudden  clenching  of 
the  hands,  a  sudden  relaxation ;  the  head  fell  back,  the  breath 
came  with  a  low,  wailing  gasp,  and  then  came  no  more.  Chris 
tine's  shoulder  pillowed  a  lifeless  corpse  ;  the  awful  moment  of 
mystery  had  come  in  the  silence  and  darkness  while  she  alone 
was  by  him. 

She  knelt,  chilled  with  awe,  while  the  human  voices  outside 
mixed  strangely  with  the  unearthly  voices  that  her  soul  seemed 
to  hear  in  the  dark,  still  air  above  her  where  the  last  breath  of 
the  dead  boy  floated.  "  Christine,  you  must  save  me." 
"  Promise  me,  promise  me  on  your  knees  that  you  will  live  for 
him."  Helena's  dying,  livid  face  and  white  attenuated  hands 
seemed  so  actual  and  so  vivid  to  her  that  she  felt  every  moment 

14* 


322  A    DEATH-BED. 

a  horror  of  their  touch.  What  was  she  saying  now? — welcom 
ing  her  lost  boy  to  his  eternal  woe.  Bars,  bars  black  aud  huge 
.across  the  deep  blackness  of  the  sky,  seemed  to  have  risen  up  to 
keep  those  two  lost  souls  apart.  Christine's  heart  died  with 
fear,  longing  to  turn  away  and  not  to  see ;  but  the  eyes  of  the  soul 
cannot  be  shut.  She  could  not  pray.  The  moments  seemed 
like  days,  while  she  was  kneeling  frozen  into  stone,  fighting 
away  that  vision.  She  could  hear  the  steps  of  those  who  had 
come  in,  on  the  floor  above  and  through  the  hall.  She  knew 
they  were  searching  the  house,  looking  for  him  whom  she  held 
in  her  arms ;  but  that  seemed  the  unreal,  these  faces  gathering 
blackness  in  the  air  above  her  seemed  the  real. 

At  last — the  spell  was  broken — the  door  opened,  and 
Rebecca  entered,  bringing  a  dim  light.  Christine  staggered  to 
her  feet.  The  woman  motioned  her  quickly  to  a  door,  opening 
into  a  lobby,  that  stood  half  open. 

"They  insist  on  coming  in,"  she  said,  hastily,  taking  her 
place  beside  the  bed,  and  drawing  the  light  away  so  that  it 
should  not  fall  upon  it. 

Christine  mechanically  obeyed  her,  and  half  drew  the  door 
shut  after  her.  The  men  from  the  hall  entered  by  the  other 
door  ;  the  foremost  one  was  saying  in  a  manner  of  apology  : 

"  You  know,  Dr.  Catherwood,  this  seems  rather  hard  to  be 
intruding  on  you  at  a  time  like  this ;  but  people  will  talk, 
and  since  it  had  got  round  that  there  had  been  some  one  seen 
coming  out  of  here  at  night,  why  it  seemed  just  as  well  to 
satisfy  them  and  go  through  the  house.  A  man  respected  in 
the  town  like  you,  Dr.  Catherwood,  of  course  don't  fall  under 
any  suspicion  of  harboring  the  criminal,  but  it  might  have 
been  without  your  knowledge,  and  you  see " 

"  Of  course ;  I  understand  you,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  in  a 
firm,  low  tone.  "  You  have  done  perfectly  right ;  all  the  other 
parts  of  the  house  are  searched ;  in  this  room,  I  will  give  you 
my  oath,  there  is  no  one  but  my  son,  now  lying  at  the  point  of 


A   DEATH-BED.  323 

death,  and  the  woman  who  is  in  attendance  on  him.  If  you  can 
spare  me  the  pain  of  disturbing  him  by  the  search,  I  will  thank 
you ;  if  not,  then  let  me  ask  you  to  make  the  time  as  short  as 
possible." 

The  men,  touched  by  his  tone  and  manner,  and  by  the  glance 
they  had  of  the  figure  on  the  bed  in  the  dim  and  solemn  light, 
turned  back  and  went  into  the  hall,  followed  by  Dr.  Gather- 
wood.  They  were  talking  to  him  as  they  paused  in  the  lobby 
into  which  Christine  had  retreated.  She  shrank  into  the 
shade,  and  heard  with  bewildered  incredulity  their  words  and 
those  of  Dr.  Catherwood.  One  man,  apparently  the  officer,  for 
he  seemed  to  be  the  spokesman,  was  saying,  as  they  approached 
the  lobby,  that  it  was  a  disagreeable  task,  and  he  hoped  Dr. 
Catherwood  had  no  ill  feeling  towards  them  for  intruding ;  he 
only  wanted  to  do  his  duty,  and  so  he  must  ask  him  to  repeat, 
on  oath,  the  statement  he  had  made  just  then  within. 

Dr.  Catherwood  then  repeated,  on  oath  and  with  distinct 
ness,  that  the  room  out  of  which  they  had  just  come,  con 
tained  no  one  besides  those  named  by  him  before — his  son, 
Francis  Catherwood,  aged  nineteen,  recently  returned  from  Ger 
many,  now  lying  dangerously  ill  of  hsemorrhage  ;  and  the  woman, 
Rebecca  Alstan,  employed  in  attendance  on  him.  The  man 
bowed  in  silence  and  moved  towards  the  door  with  his  two 
subordinates ;  there  was  something  in  Dr.  Catherwood's  manner 
that  made  further  questioning  impossible,  official  or  personally  in 
quisitive  ;  he  occupied  a  position  among  his  townsmen  that  made 
these  petty  officers  feel  their  duty  in  this  case  an  involuntary 
impertinence.  Whatever  there  was  in  Dr.  Catherwood's  state 
ment  that  would  have  staggered  them  coming  from  a  less 
respected  man,  seemed  unquestionable  from  him. 

After  a  few  words  of  rather  clumsy  condolence  and  apology, 
they  left  the  house;  Rebecca  started  up  from  her  position  by 
the  bedside  as  she  heard  the  outer  door  close,  and  hurried  into 
the  hall ;  Christine,  half  unconscious  of  what  she  did,  went  back 


324  A    DEATH-BED. 

into  the  room,  standing  in  Rebecca's  place  at  the  head  of  the 
bed,  as  if  the  poor  wretch  lying  on  it  still  needed  an  attendant. 
Rebecca  had  left  the  light  upon  the  table ;  it  was  shining 
faintly  now  upon  the  bed. 

Dr.  Catherwood  entered  from  the  hall,  and  stopped  midway 
in  the  room,  for  he  saw  the  face  upon  the  bed  in  its  ghastly  and 
settled  sleep.  His  expression  had  been  very  haggard  and  worn 
before  he  caught  that  sight ;  it  changed  slowly,  very  slowly,  into 
something  worse  and  of  deeper  suffering.  He  almost  staggered 
to  the  bed,  and,  resting  his  hand  upon  the  foot  of  it,  gazed  long  at 
the  lifeless  body.  At  last  he  raised  his  eyes  and  met  Christine's 
fixed  upon  him  with  the  expression  of  a  person  just  recovering 
consciousness  gaspingly,  after  a  hideous  dream. 

"  You  do  not  mean,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  with  her 
wide  open  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  "  that  what  you  told  those  men 
is  true  ?" 

"  Yes,  Christine,"  he  answered  in  a  hollow  voice,  leaning 
forward,  his  hands  clasped  upon  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "  It  is 
true — that  poor  boy  is  mine — your  unhappy  sister  was  my  wife. 
God  forgive  us  both  !  We  were  two  children — two  wilful,  wicked 
children.  We  have  gone  through  deep  waters  since  those  days." 

The  long,  dead  past  seemed  to  have  come  back  to  him,  some 
sudden  revelation  of  memory ;  he  leaned  his  head  down  in  his 
hands  and  was  silent.  When  he  looked  up,  Christine  had 
fallen  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  and  had  hidden  her  face  in  her 
hands  ;  but  when  he  approached  her,  she  started  up  and  shrank 
away  from  him. 

"  I  want  to  go  away  from  here,"  she  said  in  a  smothered, 
agitated  voice,  making  her  way  towards  the  door  with  trepida 
tion. 

"  One  word,  Christine,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  supplication, 
putting  his  hand  out  to  stop  her ;  but  she  avoided  him  and  was 
gone  before  he  could  say  another  word.  He  turned  back,  sank 
into  a  chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 


DUST   TO    DUST.  325 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

DUST    TO    DUST. 

"  The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears  ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  grey  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  days  and  years  ; 
But  long  before  the  once  loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay." 

THE  bell  was  tolling,  "  a  slow  set  bell ;"  the  grey,  dull  November 
afternoon  was  drawing  to  its  close.  The  first  sound  of  it  had 
fallen  upon  Christine's  heart  like  a  heavy,  deadening  blow  ;  she 
was  standing  by  her  father's  bedside  when  it  began  to  ring,  and 
she  started  hurriedly  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Don't  go  away,  my  child,"  he  said,  feebly,  reaching  out  his 
hand.  For  two  days  he  had  been  far  weaker  and  worse  than 
Christine  had  ever  seen  him  before. 

"  I  will  not  go,  father,"  she  said,  in  a  smothered  voice,  taking 
his  hand  with  a  caress,  and  then  going  to  the  window. 

This  window  overlooked  the  garden  and  the  churchyard. 
The  leaves  had  fallen  from  the  trees,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
hide  the  sight  of  the  funeral  train  as  it  entered  the  gate  and 
paused  at  the  church  door,  met  by  the  priest  in  his  white  robes 
with  the  open  book  in  his  hand.  Christine  stood  leaning  her 
face  against  the  pane  and  gazing  at  the  solemn  sight  in  stupefied 
and  dull  despair.  This  double  death,  this  strange  truth  and 
apparent  falsehood,  bewildered  her  and  made  her  uncertain  of 
all  things  save  the  terrors  of  eternity ;  and  on  them  her  mind 


326  DUST  TO  DUST. 

had  dwelt  till  it  had  become  benumbed.  That  bell  that  had 
just  stopped  tolling,  and  had  called  so  many  people  into 
church,  was  acting  its  part  in  the  great  falsehood ;  and  the 
minister,  with  the  solemn  words  of  burial  on  his  lips,  was  help 
ing  to  cover  up  the  crime  ;  the  coffin  lid,  the  pall  with  its  heavy, 
mournful  folds — what  brave  and  mocking  hypocrisies  they  were  ! 
And  yet,  what  was  false,  except  the  life  in  which  for  so  many  years 
she  had  had  part!  That  body,  over  whom  the  priest  was  say 
ing  holy  words,  was  the  body  of  the  only  son  of  him  who 
walked  behind  it  with  such  a  haggard  face.  The  plate  that 
bore  the  words — 

"  FRANCIS  CATHERWOOD, 

Born  at  Strasbourg,  Oct.  19th,  18—, 

Died  at ,  November  17th,  18 — ," 

told  the  truth  ;  the  lips  that  had  said  Julian  Upham  all  these 
years  had  told  the  lie. 
And  yet,  while 

"All  the  congregation  sang 
A  Christian  psalm  for  him," 

while  consecrated  ground  was  broken  to  receive  his  body,  his 
soul — black  with  the  crime  of  murder,  stained  with  a  thousand 
sins  of  inclination  and  of  choice — was  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
prayers.  The  kind  friends  of  him  who  was  the  only  mourner, 
fancied  they  stood  beside  the  coffin  of  a  stratiger,  one  long 
absent  from  his  father's  home,  only  returned  to  it  to  die  ;  when, 
in  reality,  its  lid  covered  a  face  that  had  been  familiar  to  old 
and  young  in  the  town,  before  sin  and  suffering  had  effaced  the 
last  traces  of  youth  and  fairness  from  it. 

The  father's  high  name  and  honor  had  been  the  son's  shield, 
dying  and  in  death.  No  word  of  doubt  or  of  suspicion  went 
abroad ;  that  Dr.  Catherwood  had  a  son  living,  had  been  a 
married  man,  excited  wonder.  But  there  had  been  nothing  in 
his  life  among  them  to  justify  any  one  in  making  his  conceal- 


DUST   TO   DUST.  327 

ment  of  it  a  reproach  or  scandal.  Generous  of  sympathy  and 
kindness  to  others,  he  had  always  maintained  a  reserve  about 
that  which  concerned  himself  and  his  past  history,  that  had 
rather  given  the  impression  he  might  some  day  appear  in  a 
different  light.  No  one  could  blame  him  that  he  had  chosen 
to  be  silent  when  he  had  never  made  any  pretence  of  openness. 
The  explanation  that  he  gave  to  the  few  friends  who  came  to 
him  in  this  trial,  was  very  simple  and  concise,  and  meant  for  the 
ear  of  the  world,  which  in  due  course  it  reached. 

This  son  of  an  early  marriage  had  been  separated  from  him 
for  years  by  unavoidable  circumstances ;  had  lived  among  the 
family  of  his  mother,  who  had  died  while  he  was  still  a  child, 
and  had  earnestly  requested  he  should  be  brought  up  by 
them,  lie  had  received  word  from  them  to  meet  the  boy,  who 
arrived  from  Germany,  and  was  brought  to  his  father's  house  only 
to  die.  lie  had  inherited  pulmonary  weakness  from  his  mother, 
and  aggravating  circumstances  had  hastened  the  disease. 

However  much  further  friends  and  gossips  desired  to  go,  they 
never  ventured  beyond  that  limit,  for  Dr.  Catherwood  under 
stood,  better  than  most  men,  governing  conversation,  and  hold 
ing  the  minds  of  those  with  whom  he  talked  in  check.  It  is 
rather  a  delicate  matter  to  ask  any  man  who  his  wife  was,  who 
has  been  dead  a  dozen  or  so  of  years,  and  what  the  aggravating 
circumstances  were  which  hastened  his  child's  decease.  From 
these  materials,  which  were  strictly  all  that  any  one  was  pos 
sessed  of,  there  was  built  up  a  theory,  which,  in  a  little  while, 
took  the  proportions  of  a  family  history,  and  which  sounded 
very  much  as  follows  :  Dr.  Catherwood,  travelling  abroad  when 
very  young,  had  seen  and  fallen  in  love  with  a  beautiful  young 
German  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  watchmaker,  who  had  married 
him,  borne  him  one  child,  and  died,  requesting  on  her  death-bed 
that  her  child  might  be  brought  up  in  her  own  country  and  by 
her  6wn  family.  Dr.  Catherwood,  too  generous  to  disregard 
her  wish,  and  too  refined  to  live  in  the  watchmaker's  family 


328  DUST   TO   DUST. 

himself,  had  settled  a  handsome  annuity  upon  the  child  and 
given  him  up  to  them.  The  "  aggravating  circumstances " 
were  variously  stated.  Some  said  the  watchmaker  had  proved 
a  villain,  and  had  maltreated  the  boy  while  he  benefited  by  the 
annuity ;  others  suspected  that  the  boy  himself  had  not  turned 
out  well,  and  that  he  had  been  sent  to  the  father  to  reform 
when  his  health  was  deeply  injured  by  his  reckless  habits; 
while  it  was  imagined  by  some  that  the  voyage  had  been  a  very 
Irving  one,  and  that  the  lad's  ignorance  and  inexperience  had 
subjected  him  to  much  exposure  by  the  way. 

All  this  was  circulated  freely  in  the  town,  and  the  result 
was,  more  interest  than  ever  felt  in  the  favorite  doctor,  and 
more  people  present  at  the  church  on  the  day  of  his  son's 
burial  than  often  came  together  for  a  week-day  service.  Indeed 
this  new  topic  almost  superseded  that  which  ten  days  ago  had. 
been  so  absorbing,  and  poor  Harry  seemed  in  the  way  to  be 
forgotten  and  unavenged.  People  had  settled  down  into  the 
belief  that  the  murder  had  been  committed  by  some  rough 
sailor  comrade,  hanging  about  him  with  the  hope  of  plundering 
him  of  the  wages  of  his  last  long  voyage,  and  escaped  beyond 
pursuit  hours  before  the  murder  was  discovered.  Everything 
proper  and  energetic  seemed  to  have  been  done,  and,  as  yet, 
with  no  result;  the  story  grew  to  be  an  old  one,  and  people 
lost  their  zest  about  it.  They  grew  to  be  certain,  in  their  own 
minds,  that  the  murderer  was  hundreds  of  miles  out  at  sea  by 
this  time,  little  suspecting  that  they  had  buried  him  with  honors 
in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Philip's. 

"For  whom  do  they  ring  that  bell,  my  child?"  said  the  old 
Rector,  feebly,  turning  his  head  upon  the  pillow  in  the  direction 
of  the  window. 

"  Don't  you  remember,  father,"  returned  Christine,  in  a 
husky  voice,  "I  told  you  about  Dr.  Catherwood's  son  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  recollect,"  he  answered,  with   a  sigh  ;  "  I  am 


DUST   TO    DUST.  329 

always  giving  you  the  trouble  to  repeat ;  my  memory  is  sharing 
the  debility  of  my  frame,  I  see.  But  this  son — it  does  not 
surprise  me.  I  always  believed  he  had  a  history ;  he  never 
showed  a  disposition  to  be  candid.  Poor  Catherwood  !  I  doubt 
not  there  has  been  suffering — he  interested  me  deeply  from  the 
first.  He  has  such  an  appreciation  of  domestic  pleasures  and 
such  strong  powers  of  affection,  that  it  must  have  been  some 
thing  very  stern  that  kept  him  from  this  boy,  just  at  the  age  to 
be  a  solace  and  pleasure  to  him.  Ah  !  It  seems  to  explain  to 
me  the  deep  interest  that  he  always  took  in  our  poor  Julian." 

Dr.  Upham's  voice  sank ;  Christine  knew  he  would  say  no 
more.  Whenever  any  allusion  to  his  grandson  escaped  him,  it 
was  followed  by  a  sudden  and  painful  silence. 

This  silence  Christine  broke  by  a  low,  involuntary  moan ; 
she  had  listened  to  the  deep,  solemn  roll  of  the  organ,  and  she 
almost  fancied  that  she  heard  the  full  responses  of  the  people 
and  the  strong  voice  of  the  minister  as  he  pronounced  the 
prayers ;  presently  there  came  a  lull  and  then  a  tramp  of  feet 
along  the  aisle,  and  they  came  out  from  the  side  door  of  the 
church,  following  the  corpse  to  the  broken  sod  and  the  fresh 
gravel  heap  below  Helena's  grave.  Christine  sank  down  on  her 
knees  and  tried  to  follow  the  prayers ;  it  was  not  till  the  grating 
sound  struck  her  ear,  of  the  ropes  against  the  coffin  and  the 
scattered  gravel  rattling  on  it,  as  they  lowered  it  down  into  the 
earth,  that  she  gave  that  low  cry,  and  shuddering  and  sobbing, 
hurried  out  of  the  room. 

That  poor  sinner  whom  they  were  burying  out  of  sight,  was 
her  little  orphaned  charge,  her  darling  Julian — the  yellow-haired 
boy  whom  she  had  held  tight  against  her  heart  while  they 
buried  his  poor  mother,  not  ten  feet  from  where  they  were  laying 
him  down  now.  All  the  sin,  the  pollution,  the  punishment, 
was  forgotten ;  the  natural  human  grief  was  breaking  out,  and 
sobbing  and  shuddering  upon  her  bed,  Christine  was  in  a  safer  and 
beter  condition  of  mind  than  she  had  been  for  many  days  before. 


A    LETTEK. 


CHAPTER    XLVL 

A    LETTER. 

"If  In  his  cheek  unholy  blood 

Burned  for  one  youthful  hour, 
'Twas  but  the  flushing  of  the  bud 
That  blooms  a  milk-white  flower." 

HOLMES. 

Two  days  passed ;  the  Rector  wondered  that  Dr.  Catherwood 
had  not  yet  remembered  him  and  overcome  his  grief  enough  to 
pay  him  his  accustomed  visit;  Christine  wondered  how  she 
should  meet  him,  and  what  the  next  step  must  be.  She  did 
not  conjecture  very  much  about  it.  Even  now  she  had  the 
feeling,  from  long  habit,  of  depending  upon  him  for  placing 
their  relations  rightly. 

But  every  ring  at  the  bell,  every  foot  upon  the  stair,  gave 
her  a  strange  sensation  of  excitement,  and  brought  the  question 
to  her  mind,  "Can  I  meet  him  calmly  now?"  and  every  assur 
ance  that  it  was  not  he,  found  her  a  little  weaker  and  less 
nerved  to  meet  him. 

Dr.  Upham  needed  him  very  much ;  he  had  become  de 
pendent  on  his  daily  visit,  and  his  two  last  nights  had  been 
very  restless ;  he  said  more  than  once  to  Christine  that  he 
thought  it  would  be  best  to  send  down  a  messenger  to  the 
cottage. 

"  Wait  an  hour  or  two ;  see  if  he  does  not  come,"  she  said, 
soothingly ;  and  in  that  way  she  pleaded  off  till  twilight. 

She  had  gone  out  into  the  hall  for  the  purpose  of  summoning 
Ann  to  go  down  to  the  Doctor's  cottage,  when  she  met  Ann 
with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 


A   LETTER.  331 

"Dr.  Catherwood's  man  just  brought  this  for  you,  Miss 
Christine,"  she  said,  and  Christine  turned  silently  back  into  her 
own  room,  wondering  that  she  had  not  thought  that  this  would 
be  the  way  before ;  it  was  very  certain  to  her,  before  she  read 
the  letter,  that  she  should  not  be*  called  upon  to  meet  Dr. 
Catherwood  again.  She  lit  a  candle  slowly,  and  sat  down  to 
read  it  at  a  table  upon  which  there  were  pens  and  ink  and  a 
desk  full  of  other  letters.  There  was  no  fire  in  the  room  and  it 
was  very  chilly,  but  she  did  not  feel  it  at  all ;  she  felt  burning 
hot,  and  her  hands  were  feverish  and  unsteady  as  she  broke 
the  seal  : 

"  No  doubt  you  have  expected  before  this  some  explanation 
from  me,  some  palliating  story  of  the  long  hypocrisy  that  has 
just  come  to  an  end.  I  have  not  much  to  tell  you  that  you  do 
not  know  or  may  not  guess.  I  do  not  anticipate  working  any 
change  in  your  feelings  towards  me,  but  I  will  go  through  the 
form  of  telling  you  that  I  do  not  blame  myself  as  much  as  you 
blame  me,  and  that  I  am  certain  some  time  you  will  look  back 
to  this  and  say  your  horror  and  aversion  were  misplaced.  Your 
sister  lies  dead  and  silent  in  the  churchyard  near  your  home, 
Christine;  I  shall  henceforth  be  as  silent  to  you  and  be  further 
off  than  she.  I  do  not  accuse  her.  I  do  not  reproach  the 
dead ;  she  has  put  on  immortality,  and  I  am  only  now  a  mor 
tal  man ;  the  most  holy  Judge  eternal  will  decide  between 
us  in  the  world  to  come.  It  is  years  since  I  have  had  a  vin 
dictive  feeling  in  my  heart.  Forgiveness  has  been  more  the 
habit  of  my  mind  than  the  expression  of  my  lips;  but  with  lip 
and  pen,  and  in  every  mode  of  reparation  possible  to  me,  I 
have  committed  myself  to  it.  I  would  have  died,  for  her  boy. 
I  lived  for  him,  as  you  know,  though  he  hated  me  as  if  his 
mother's  soul  were  animating  him.  Sometimes  I  wonder  how 
it  could  have  been,  when  I  loved  that  baby  with  sueh  tenderness, 
when  I  loved  the  mother  with  such  passion. 


332  A   LETTER. 

"But  that  was  long  ago.  The  farther  I  go  back,  the  more 
self-reproach  there  is,  and  it  is  right  you  should  hear  that. 

"  I  was  not  twenty  when  I  married  ;  we  were  both  children. 
Helena's  character,  if  I  can  give  it  to  you  dispassionately,  was 
a  singularly  unhappy  one  to  be  committed  to  the  life  that  lay 
before  us.  She  was  totally  without  discipline ;  and  she  had 
lived  in  a -home  of  religious  faith  without  imbibing  a  single 
principle  of  religion.  I  cannot  account  for  it ;  as  far  as  I  ever 
saw  into  her  heart,  it  was  all  heathen.  When  I  first  began  to 
realize  her  after  we  were  married,  I  fancied  her  bright  and 
volatile  and  without  strong  feelings.  There  was  a  bubble  and 
sparkle  of  vanity  and  coquetry  upon  the  surface  that  made  me 
think  the  tide  was  shallow.  But  it  was  the  bubble  and  sparkle 
of  a  maelstrom ;  a  stronger  nature  I  have  never  seen  ;  a  strength 
of  selfishness  and  a  power  of  hatred  that  I  have  never  met  in 
man  or  woman  since  ;  and  a  power  of  love,  too,  which  her 
absorbing  passion  for  her  child  revealed.  But  I  did  not  know 
that  it  was  there  ;  I  never  was  able  to  call  it  out.  I  think  she 
fancied  that  she  loved  me  when  we  married ;  my  affection 
for  her  was  unbounded,  but  it  was  jealous  and  exacting,  like  a 
boy's  affection.  She  never  understood  me;  her  love  had  the 
very  briefest  existence.  We  had  not  been  a  month  in  the  gay 
society  of  Paris  before  I  found  she  was  dissatisfied,  wearied  by 
the  hours  we  spent  together,  and  always  seeking  for  excitement, 
and  sometimes  excitement  not  innocent  and  justifiable  for  a 
young  wife  to  seek.  The  discovery  was  maddening  to  me, 
undisciplined  as  herself,  and  loving  her  with  an  unreasoning 
love. 

"  There  begins  the  sin.  I  have  a  terrible  recollection  of  the 
storm  that  succeeded  the  night  that  she  first  openly  defied  my 
jealousy  and  showed  me  her  indifference.  My  conduct  after 
that  justified  all  she  could  have  said  about  it.  I  was  a  madman. 
I  made  every  moment  of  her  life  a  torture  to  her,  as  min-e  was  • 
to  me.  I  forbade  her  society.  I  watched  her  day  and  night ; 


A   LETTER.  333 

but  a  word  from  her  would  have  changed  all.  She  never  spoke 
it,  hardening  herself  against  me,  and,  with  all  a  woman's  keen 
devices,  goading  and  taunting  and  tormenting  me.  I  think  she 
hated  me  beyond  all  power  of  language  to  express,  and  I  loved 
her,  even  then,  to  madness  and  folly. 

"  That  was  a  terrible  honeymoon — such  conflicts  make  deep 
marks  upon  the  soul ;  we  threw  the  whole  strength  of  our 
youth  into  the  battle,  and  that  first  year  added  ten  to  both  our 
lives.  I  never  saw  beauty  fade  so  rapidly  as  hers ;  and,  for 
myself,  people  looked  at  me  with  wonder  when  I  went  into  the 
world  making  a  pretence  of  nonchalance  and  gaiety.  I  look 
back  to  this  insane  and  sinful  time  with  unspeakable  remorse. 
There  came  a  little  truce  to  this  at  last ;  before  I  was  twenty, 
one  I  was  a  father,  and,  in  her  danger  and  her  suffering,  Helena 
instinctively  turned  to  my  love  for  support.  I  fancied  that  I 
had  won  her  back ;  the  days  were  full  of  perfect  bliss  spent 
beside  her  and  her  baby  in  that  quaint  old  town,  where  the  bells 
rang  softly  day  and  night  over  the  quiet  houses. 

"  After  that  I  cease  to  blame  myself,  for  she  knew  I  loved 
her,  and  was  ready  to  give  up  everything  for  her  and  for  the 
child.  She  could  have  done  anything  with  me  then  ;  I  had 
forgotten  all,  though  she  had  not.  With  the  return  of  health  and 
strength,  there  came  the  old  distrust  and  coldness — the  first 
mixing  with  the  world  showed  me  my  happiness  had  been 
nothing  but  a  dream.  But  I  had  learned  wisdom,  and  I  deter 
mined  to  forbear.  For  my  child's  sake  as  well  as  for  my  own,  I 
resolved  to  be  gentle  with  her,  and  to  win  her  affection  by  my 
constant  care  for  her.  But  the  love  that  we  do  not  return  has 
little  value  for  us  :  she  was  too  careless  of  my  wishes,  too 
anxious  for  admiration,  not  to  outrage  my  feelings  every  mo 
ment.  She  loved  her  child  with  such  a  jealous  fondness,  that 
she  resented  every  caress  I  gave  him,  and  fancied  that  the 
change  in  me  towards  her  resulted  solely  from  my  desire  to 
keep  him  with  me.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  forget ;  every 


334  A    LETTER. 

angry  word  I  had  ever  spoken,  I  believe,  lived  in  her  mind  dis 
tinctly  to  the  moment  of  her  death.  It  is  useless  to  give  you 
the  details  of  that  which  followed ;  she  had  evil  advisers ;  there 
was  wrong  on  both  sides;  she  had  never  understood  me;  she 
never  could  forgive  ;  she  left  me.  You  may  have  heard  some 
of  the  troubles  that  succeeded  that.  I  was  human  ;  I  had  not 
yet  learned  self-control,  and  the  child  was  mine  as  well  as  hers. 
I  do  not  blame  myself  for  the  steps  I  took,  though  events  have 
proved  them  to  have  been  unwise.  The  law  gave  him  to  me, 
and  then  followed  the  years  of  banishment  and  concealment 
that  cost  her  her  health  and  comfort  and  respectability,  killed 
the  last  throb  of  love  I  felt  for  her,  and  destroyed  the  last  hope 
of  rescuing  the  child  from  her  influence. 

"Many   years   before    I   found    him    here  in    ,    I  had 

given  him  up  in  intention  to  her.  I  doubt  whether  I  could 
have  had  the  heart  to  force  him  from  her  even  if  my  search  had 
been  successful  at  the  first ;  but  I  longed  so  to  see  him,  to  hold 
him  in  my  arms  once  again,  that  for  three  years  after  I  lost 
sight  of  them  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  pursuit. 

"  A  fortune  came  to  me  from  Virginia,  burdened  with  the 
condition  of  taking  the  testator's  name.  That  aided  me  in  de 
stroying  the  traces  of  my  former  condition.  How  successful  I 
was  in  the  change  is  proved  by  the  many  quiet  and  unsuspected 
years  I  have  spent  in . 

"  The  excitement  of  travel  and  constant  change  of  scene  had 
deadened  somewhat  the  sharpness  of  my  regrets  and  longings, 
and  the  philosophy  of  the  Divine  Benefactor  had  emptied  my 
heart  of  the  last  taint  of  bitterness,  when  I  so  strangely  found 
myself  with  my  boy  in  my  arms  beside  his  mother's  grave.  It 
was  long  before  I  could  determine  how  to  meet  this  strange 
emergency — whether  to  claim  the  boy  and  take  him  from  you, 
as  I  had  every  right  to  do,  or  leaving  him  with  you,  to  declare 
myself,  which  I  knew  was  tantamount  to  another  separation  from 
him,  for  a  few  days  had  served  to  show  me  the  light  in  which 


A    LETTER.  3-15 

the  boy's  father  was  regarded,  and  the  bitter  rejection  that  his 
claims  would  have  received.  Gentle  as  you  are,  Christine,  I 
had  a  feeling  that  you  would  have  had  no  mercy  for  your 
sister's  execrated  husband,  and  the  result  has  shown  me  that  I 
was  not  wrong. 

"  I  hated  this  hypocrisy.  I  began  it  with  a  regard  only  for 
your  happiness  and  the  peace  of  your  father's  old  years.  I 
doubted,  from  month  to  month,  whether  I  was  equal  to  the 
sacrifice.  Finally  it  came  to  be  no  sacrifice,  and  the  greatest 
dread  of  my  life  became  that  I  must  some  time  let  you  know 
to  whom  you  had  given  your  confidence  and  kindness.  It  be 
came  a  tangled  web — it  had  better  never  have  been  begun. 

"You  know  the  rest.  You  can  judge  whether  in  any  other 
position  I  could  have  done  my  duty  more  fully  to  the  boy  ; 
whether  by  outraging  his  dead  mother's  wishes,  taking  him 
from  the  home  where  there  seemed  the  most  promise  of  bene 
fiting  him,  tearing  him  from  the  love  of  one  better  and  ten 
derer  to  him  than  his  mother,  I  could  have  done  a  juster  and 
wiser  thing.  It  would  have  been  easier  to  myself,  happier  for 
me  in  a  thousand  ways ;  what  it  would  have  been  for  him,  I 
have  not  sight  clear  enough  to  determine. 

"  So  let  me  leave  this  painful  subject,  never,  probably,  to  be 
revived  again  in  words,  for  I  owe  no  explanation  to  any  other 
human  being.  I  leave  it  in  your  hands  to  say  what  may  seem 
wise  to  you  to  Dr.  Upham.  If  you  think  best  not  to  disturb 
his  few  remaining  moments  of  life  by  a  shock  so  great  as  this 
would  be,  you  may  present  my  departure  to  him  as  the  result 
of  complications  occasioned  by  my  son's  death ;  and  you  may 
say  to  him  that  nothing  save  the  necessity  of  instant  departure 
from  these  scenes  would  have  made  it  possible  for  me  to  leave 
thus  abruptly  a  friend  so  valued. 

"  I  have  longed  to  see  his  face  once  more,  but  I  have  judged 
it  best  (as  you  will  not  find  it  difficult  to  understand)  to  end 
my  connexion  with  your  house  at  once.  In  saying  such  a 


336  A    LETTER. 

farewell  as  this  is,  I  cannot  feel  that  it  is  ended  without  revert 
ing  a  moment  to  our  past  relations — a  thing  which  under  other 
circumstances  would,  I  know,  have  seemed  unwarrantable ;  but 
you  will  understand  this  to  be  said  without  presumption,  and 
with  the  calmness  of  a  man  who  feels  his  part  in  life  is  ended, 
and  who  judges  dispassionately  of  what  has  gone  before,  and 
knows  that  there  is  nothing  to  come  after. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  have  long  seen  reason  to  feel  thankful 
that  you  kept  faith  with  Julian's  mother.  Your  ardent  and 
childlike  affection  for  me  deceived  you ;  I  have  not  been  blind 
to  the  change  that  has  come,  nor  could  I  have  wished  it  other 
wise.  I  have  not  one  reproach  to  make,  I  have  no  feeling  of 
bitterness.  You  were  a  child,  and  you  did  not  understand 
yourself;  I  should  have  been  wiser,  and  estimated  more  truly 
the  emotion  you  evinced.  To  have  hoped  that  that  young 
feeling  would  have  outlived  years  of  silence  and  the  shock  of 
such  a  discovery  as  this,  would  have  been  folly.  I  have  not 
been  disappointed,  for  my  judgment  warned  me  that  it  would 
be  so,  with  only  one  exception  :  I  was  not  prepared  for  what 
your  face  told  me  when  you  left  me.  I  had  fancied  there  would 
be  a  struggle,  that  past  feelings  of  kindness  would  have  revived 
their  force  for  the  moment.  But — and  it  is  the  only  wrong  in 
my  whole  life  of  which  I  feel  any  sting — if  I  had  any  claim 
to  talk  of  forgiveness  towards  you,  I  would  say,  I  forgave  your 
unspoken  resentment,  as  I  know  you  have,  ere  this,  forgiven 
me  all  the  unintentional  evil  which  I  have  brought  into  your  life. 

"  I  thank  Heaven  that  with  me  disappears  the  last  link  that 
connected  your  life  with  the  sins  and  misfortunes  of  those  who 
have  gone.  I  feel  a  satisfaction  in  remembering  your  youth, 
and  your  still  fresh  capacities  for  happiness.  You  are  free  now ; 
you  have  borne  the  yoke  of  duty  with  a  most  perfect  heroism. 
God  bless  you,  and  all  who  may  make  you  happy. 

"EDWARD  CATHERWOOD." 


A   JUNE   TWILIGHT.  337 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

A    JUNE    TWILIGHT. 

"Was  never  payne  but  it  had  joye  at  last 
In  the  fayre  morrowe." 

IT  was  a  soft  June  evening,  almost  twilight;  but  .the  fading  of 
June  days  is  so  gradual,  it  is  difficult  to  say  where  day  ends 
and  night  begins.  Christine  had  been  leaning  long  over  the 
rough  bridge  under  which  the  mill-stream  rushed,  listening  to 
the  monotonous  melody,  and  watching  the  darkening  of  the 
water  as  the  sunset  died  away.  But  she  thought  little  of  the 
water  and  of  the  sunset ;  she  was  struggling  with  herself — pride 
and  reason  against  the  yearning  of  her  heart  and  the  clamor 
of  an  hourly  growing  misery. 

Her  father  was  dead ;  home  was  now  lonely,  lonely  beyond 
expression  ;  and  the  silent  months  had  gone  on  without  bringing 
her  any  news  of  Dr.  Catherwood.  She  had  written  to  him 
when  her  father  died,  and  had  sent  for  Rebecca  and  committed 
the  letter  to  her  care.  The  woman  did  not  know  his  address, 
might  not  know  it  for  months  to  come,  but  if  she  found  it  out 
she  would  forward  it  to  him.  She  was  grim  and  silent,  and 
intercourse  with  her  was  always  personally  painful  to  Christine. 
The  poor  girl  asked  her  faintly  to  let  her  know  if  she  should 
hear  from  him,  and  the  woman  went  away  saying  something 
below  her  breath,  that  might  or  might  not  be  a  promise. 

Christine  hoped  it  was,  and  for  months  lived  upon  the  hope. 
She  often  passed  the  cottage  and  looked  wistfully  in  at  its  closed 
windows,  hoping  to  catch  sight  of  Rebecca  somewhere  about 

15 


338  A  JUNE  TWILIGHT. 

the  house  or  garden  ;  but  Rebecca  was  never  to  be  seen,  and 
from  no  one  else  was  there  any  hope  of  hearing  anything.  Dr. 

Catherwood  was  not  forgotten  in  ,  but  no  one  was  in 

correspondence  with  him  ;  no  one  knew  anything  more  than 
that  he  was  travelling  in  Europe,  and  seldom  if  ever  wrote 
to . 

Anxiety  often  reaches  its  climax  without  any  perceptible 
acceleration  from  circumstances.  That  day  Christine  found 
herself  more  heavy-hearted  than  ever,  and  that  evening  she 
felt  ready  to  endure  any  mortification  and  humiliation  rather 
than  not  hear  from  Rebecca  what  she  knew  of  Dr.  Catherwood. 
Her  resolution  taken,  she  hurried  across  the  dam,  and  did  not 
stop  till  she  reached  the  gate  that  led  to  the  cottage.  If  she 
paused  before  opening  it,  it  was  only  because  her  hand  trembled 
so  she  could  not  lift  the  latch.  The  twilight  had  grown  pretty 
thick,  and  she  could  only  see,  as  she  went  down  the  path,  that 
the  windows  were  dark  as  ever,  and  the  porch  overgrown  with 
untended  vines.  Her  black  dress  brushed  against  the  shrubs 
and  weeds  that  had  crept  into  the  path,  and  the  long  grass  hid 
the  flower-beds  that  used  to  make  the  little  garden  bright. 

She  hurried  round  the  corner  of  the  house ;  there  were  a 
good  many  trees  standing  close  to  it,  and  it  seemed  very  dark. 
A  side  entrance  stood  open  :  she  knocked  faintly ;  no  one 
answered;  again,  and  after  a  moment  of  silence,  she  went  in. 
Half  way  through  the  passage,  a  door  opened  opposite  her, 
and  she  paused.  It  was  Rebecca,  who  had  heard  her  and  was 
coming  from  the  sitting-room  which  she  occupied  now  alto 
gether,  a  small  nondescript  apartment  opening  out  of  the 
dining-room. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  made  Christine  want 
to  be  nobody.  But  she  made  an  effort  and  said  who  she  was, 
and  then  added,  after  a  silence  : 

"  I  came  to  know — to  ask — that  is— did  you  ever  send  my 
letter  to  Dr.  Catherwood  ?" 


A   JUKE   TWILIGHT.  339 

The  woman  said  she  had,  and  was  horribly  silent  again.  By 
this  time  Christine  was  a  little  more  under  the  influence  of  her 
anxiety,  and  a  little  less  under  the  influence  of  her  shyness. 

"  I  want  to  know  if  you  have  heard  from  him  ?"  she  said. 

Rebecca  probably  looked  at  her,  but  it  was  so  dark  she  could 
not  see  her ;  her  tone  was  very  disagreeable  as  she  said : 

"  Heard  from  him  ?     About  what  ?" 

"About  himself,"  said  Christine,  a  little  impatiently.  "I 
asked  you  to  let  me  know  if  you  heard  from  him,  and  you  knew 
I  was  anxious." 

"  That's  your  mistake ;  I  didn't  know  anything  of  the  kind," 
she  returned,  tartly. 

"  Was  he  well — where  was  he — and  had  he  received  my  let 
ter?"  questioned  Christine. 

"  He  hasn't  written,"  returned  the  woman,  coldly ;  "  so  I 
can't  say  whether  he's  got  your  letter  or  no." 

"  Then  you  haven't  heard  ?"  she  said,  ready  to  cry. 

"  Well,  one  can  hear  without  getting  letters  sometimes,  can't 
one  ?"  she  retorted,  with  a  sort  of  viciousness. 

"  From  whom  have  you  heard  from  him — he  is  not  ill  ?"  fal 
tered  Christine,  in  a  voice  that  told  even  the  spinster  Rebecca 
the  story  of  her  heart. 

Rebecca  made  a  motion,  a  gesture  of  pointing  to  the  door, 
to  which  Christine  had  her  back. 

She  started  and  turned  round  quickly ;  some  one  stood  in  the 
doorway ;  in  her  agitation  she  could  not  distinguish  who,  but  a 
sudden  frightened,  smothered  feeling  made  her  hurry  to  reach 
the  door  and  to  get  out  into  the  air.  That  some  one  on  the 
threshold  took  her  hand  and  held  her  fast. 

"  I  came  back  last  night,"  he  said.  "  Don't  go  away  from 
me,  Christine." 

There  was  something  in  his  tender,  protecting,  familiar  voice 
that  rang  through  Christine's  lonely  heart ;  she  had  no  answer 
but  tears,  and  he  would  have  liked  none  so  well.  He  drew  her 


340  A   JUNE   TWILIGHT. 

to  him,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  holding  her  hand 
against  his  lips  and  whispering  his  tender  love. 

Poor  Christine !  The  fight  was  all  over,  and  the  day  of 
peace  begun. 

****** 

"  Christine,"  said  Dr.  Catherwood,  coming  one  day  into  the 
room  where  his  wife  sat  sewing  alone  in  a  sunny,  white-cur 
tained  window,  with  a  face  as  bright  and  soft  in  her  solitude 
as  if  she  were  hearing  beautiful  music  or  reading  lovely  verses. 
"  Christine,  I  have  good  news  to  tell  you  of  Madeline,  your 
friend." 

"  Good  news  !"  cried  Christine,  starting  up.  "  Oh,  I  know  ! 
she  is  going  to  be  married  !" 

"  For  shame,  Christine,"  he  said,  with  grave  reproach  in  his 
voice,  though  with  something  not  quite  accordant  in  his  eyes. 
"  For  shame — as  if  there  were  no  other  good  news  could  be 
told  about  a  woman.  I  expected  something  stronger-minded 
of  you.  I  shall  punish  you  by  not  telling  you  a  word  more 
of  your  friend  to-day." 

"Ah,"  pleaded  Christine,  "tell  me.  How  can  I  wait?  I 
take  it  all  back.  She  has  turned  composer — author;  she  has 
studied  medicine — is  going  to  found  a  hospital.  Only  tell 
me." 

"  No,  not  a  word  to-day.  There  is  no  use  in  questioning 
me,  remember." 


THE  END. 


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pect  from  the  one  as  the 
oilier" — BUTLER. 


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CENTEOLA.— By  author  "  Green  Mountain  Boys."    do.  $1.50 

BED  TAPE  AND  PIGEON-HOLE  GENERALS.—   .  do.  $1.50 

THE  PARTISAN  LEADER.— By  Beverly  Tucker.        do.  81.50 

ADAM  GUROW8KI.— Washington  diary  for  1863.     do.  $1.50 

TREATISE  ON  DEAFNESS.— By  Dr.  E.  B.  Lighthill.  do.  $1.50 

THE  PRISONER  OF  STATE.— By  D.  A.  Mahoney.     do.  $1.50 

AROUND  THE  PYRAMIDS.— By  Gen.  Aaron  Ward.  do.  $1.50 

CHINA  AND  THE  CHINESE.— By  W.  L.  G.  Smith,   do.  $1.50 

THE  WINTHROPS.— A  novel  by  J.  R.  Beckwith.      do.  $1.75 

SPREES  AND  SPLASHES.— By  Henry  Morford.        do.  $1.50 

GARRET  VAN  HORN.— A  novel  by  J.  S.  Sauzade.     do.  $1.50 

SCHOOL. FOR  THE  SOLDIER.— By  Capt.  Van  Ness.  do.  50  cts. 

THE  YACHTMAN'S  PRIMER.— By  T.  R.  Warren,     do.  50  cts. 

EDGAR  POE  AND  His  CRITICS.— By  Mrs.  Whitman,  do.  $1.00 

ERIC;  OR,  LITTLE  BY  LITTLE.— By  F.  W.  Farrar.    do.  $1.50 

BAINT  wraiFRED'S.-By  the  author  of  "  Eric."       do.  $1.50 

A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  WOMEN.—       .  do.  $1.50 

THE  SEA.— By  Michelet,  author  of  "Lcve."  do.  $1.50 

MARRIED  OFF.— Illustrated  satirical  poem.     .          do.  50  cts. 

SCHOOL-DAYS   OF  EMINENT  MEN.— By  Timbs.  do.  $1.50 

ROMANCE  OF  A  POOR  YOUNG  MAN.—   .  .  do.  $1.50 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN.— J.  G.  Saxe,  illustrated,  do.  75  cts. 

ALEXANDER  VON  HUMBOLDT.— Life  and  travels,     do.  $1.50 

LIFE  OF  HUGH  MILLER— The  celebrated  geologist,  do.  $1.50 

LYRICS  OF  A  DAY— or,  newspaper  poetry.     .          do.  $1.00 

THE  u.  8.  TAX  LAW.-"  Government  Edition."     do.  $1.00 

TACTICS;  or,  Cupid  in  Shoulder-Straps.        .          do.  $1.50 

DEBT  AND  GRACE.-By  Rev.  C.  F.  Hudson.  do.  $1.75 

THE  RUSSIAN  BALK-Illustrated  satirical  poem.     do.  50  cts. 

THE  SNOBLACE  BALL.-     do.  do.       do.  do.  50  CtS. 

THE  CHURCH  IN  THE  ARMY._By  Dr.  Scott.  do.  81.75 

TEACH  US  TO  PRAY.-By  Dr.  Gumming.        .          do.  81.50 

AN  ANSWER  TO  HUGH  MiLLER.-By  T.  A.  Davies.  do.  81.50 
GOSMOGONY.-By  Thomas  A.  Davies.     .         8vo.  cloth,  82.00 

TWENTY  YEARS  around  the  World.   J.  Guy  Vassar.  do.  83.75 

THE  SLAVE  POWER.-By  J.  E.  Cairnes.  .          .          do.  82.00 

RUBAX  AEOHlTECTURE,-By  M.  Field,  illustrated,    do.  $2.00 


